by Phil Rickman
‘Somebody’s got to stop him, before he buys up the entire village.’
‘And you’d expose him how? Being as how Savitch is ring-fenced and lawyered to the gills.’
‘My boyfriend,’ Jane said. ‘He’s a journalist?’
‘Is he really.’
‘He can get the story out. All we need to know is where it’s happening, where he’s doing it.’
Cornel had started to laugh.
‘You don’t know me,’ Jane said. ‘I can do this.’
‘And you think I’m going to tell you what I know?’
‘You don’t have to be implicated. We don’t have to name you.’
A silence. Holding her hands together under the table.
‘Which paper’s your boyfriend work for, then?’
‘He freelances for the Sunday Times. You might’ve seen his name. Eirion Lewis?’
She was on safe ground here. A big fat paper, and nobody ever remembered reporters’ names, only columnists.
‘So what’s in it for me?’ Cornel said.
She didn’t know what to say.
‘Jane, you just don’t know who you’re messing with, do you? You just don’t fuck with these guys for the sake of a few bloody chickens and some flea-riddled badgers.’
‘Badgers?’
Jane stared at him.
‘Badgers are vermin,’ Cornel said. ‘They cause TB in cattle.’
‘That’s… debatable. You’re saying they go after badgers as well? With dogs? Where you dig out the badgers and set dogs on them, and the dogs and the badgers both get ripped to-’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Like hell I will!’
‘Not me, all right?’ Cornel looked up to where three women were sitting down, a couple of tables away. ‘Not me personally. I don’t like to get my hands dirty.’
‘You only don’t dig out badgers for hygiene reasons?’
‘ Shut up.’
‘But that’s something else Savitch organizes for bored rich bastards, right?’
‘Jane, drop it. You’re a kid. Go away. Have fun.’
‘Anybody,’ Jane said through her teeth, ‘ anybody who expects me to go away and have fun while this obscene shit-Just give me something on Savitch, Cornel. Why can’t you do that?’
A silence between them. You could hear everything, every gush and tinkle from behind the counter, every scrape of a chair leg. One of the three women at the next-but-one table was talking about how she’d only take some guy back if he promised to cut down on the booze.
‘You told anybody about this?’
‘No.’
Instinct saying lie, think about it later.
One of the women at the other table told the first woman she was making a big mistake because they never cut down on the booze, whatever they told you, unless some quack told them their lives were on the line.
Cornel said, ‘So you didn’t tell your mother, for instance?’
‘ God, no. Why would I? She’s in a difficult enough position, as vicar. Anybody gets the shit on Savitch, it’s better it’s me. I’m just a pagan.’
‘Yes,’ Cornel said. ‘They were laughing about that in the Ox.’
‘Yeah, well, they would, those morons.’
‘Some of them found it rather titillating.’
‘Yeah, Dean Wall. Moronic slob. Like I go out dancing naked. It’s just native religion. It’s my central interest. Ancient sites and stuff. Studied it for years.’
Cornel had his smartphone out, flicking through some stuff on the screen, then he handed it across.
‘What’s this, then?’
‘Huh?’
‘Look at it. If you know so much about paganism, tell me what this is.’
The picture blinked up at Jane, very clear in the dim light. You were looking down this weird kind of stone vault, like the crypt of a church with a fairly primitive plinth at the end. A tablet of stone with a carved face on it with like a Mohican haircut. Primitive, but not prehistoric, and definitely not Celtic.
‘Is it Roman?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well, where is it?’
Cornel didn’t reply. Jane had another look. You could see stone blocks, like seating, stepped up from a closed-in area, like an arena. She’d seen arenas like this on the Net. Well, not exactly like this, but the same size, a small, closed-in area, impossible to escape from.
If you were poultry.
Holy shit.
‘Cornel…’
‘What?’
‘Is this where it happens? The cockfights?’
Thinking back to the Web sites she’d forced herself to read. It was starting to make sense. The sport which had apparently been introduced to Britain by the Roman invaders.
Was this some little purpose-built Roman arena, a cockfight colosseum?
‘You going to tell me where this is, Cornel?’
Cornel smiled.
‘Why should I?’
‘Then why are you showing me this?’
‘Just thought you might know what it is. Obviously you don’t know as much as you-’
Jane put the smartphone down again, looked Cornel in the eyes.
‘They do badger-baiting here too?’
You could just imagine that, the squeals, the yipping and the ripping in this claustrophobic vault, blood all over its walls
It had Savitch written all over it. The way he was always going on about reviving old traditions.
‘Cornel… please.’
‘Jane, I’m a stranger here. I don’t even know what the place is called. Guys who go there… what usually happens is they’re taken at night. Sometimes blindfolded.’
‘But you know where to find it?’
‘You’re asking me to take you?’
Jane read the car number plates over the bar again, right to left.
‘I’d keep you out of it. I’d just take some pictures on my phone, and that would be it.’
‘I hate to be boring.’ Cornel looked at her, and not just at her face. ‘But what’s in it for me?’
‘Cornel, I’ve got a boyfriend.’
‘And even if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t fancy me, would you?’
Jane said, ‘Please…?’
58
Poultry Contest
If Danny had ever seen Gomer this mad before, he didn’t know when it was.
‘Hangin’ offence, sure t’be.’ The ole feller was flattened against the back end of a stone ex-pigsty, firing up another ciggy like it was a little stick of gelignite. ‘Passing theirselves off as Her Majesty’s Special Forces. Wartime, that’d be a bloody capital offence. Treason, see. Treason, boy!’
‘Gomer,’ Danny said. ‘There’s boys all over Hereford pretends to be Sass, to get their end away with the local talent. This en’t-’
‘This is bloody different!’
‘It was common land. It was under a foot of snow. No different to… to kids goin’ out with sledges.’
Knowing, even as he was saying it, that this was different. Remembering the tone of voice, the sense of threat. The feeling he’d had at the time that they were gonner get done over at the very least. And a man naked in the snow. Laughing, but serious. The whole thing serious.
‘You know another thing?’ Gomer said, quieter, more sober now. ‘What happened that night all but destroyed my bit o’ faith in the Sass. The Sass is hard bastards, sure t’be, but I always had ’em down as polite, kind o’ thing.’
Ah, so that was it. Danny stared out over the field with dead docks and no stock. Put your lights out, then fuck off. Gomer Parry Plant Hire dissed.
‘Kenny bloody Mostyn,’ Gomer said.
‘You knows him?’
‘Knowed his ole man, Eugene Mostyn. Inherited a tidy farm from an uncle and pissed it all away. Goes off to Birmingham weekends, nobody lookin’ after the stock. Ewes caught in the wire, cattle left out in freezin’ conditions.’
‘I hates that kind,’ Danny admitted.
‘Gets a Bru
mmie girl up the stick, right? Seventeen years later, this boy Kenny turns up from Brum, lookin’ for his ole man. Eugene’s gamekeeper now for ole Glenda Morgan – and her was three sheets by then, else her’d never’ve employed the useless bastard. Boy gets took on by Glenda, to help his ole man, which means doin’ Eugene’s job while Eugene’s down the bettin’ shop. Best thing happened to Kenny was when Eugene comes out the pub on a dark afternoon, goes for a slash in the road and gets flattened by a timber lorry.’
‘Kenny collect much?’
‘No, but ole Glenda seen him right, and when her’s gone he rents a shop in Hereford, and that’s how Hardkit was born. Right, then.’ Gomer peeled himself off the wall in a blast of ciggy smoke. ‘I’m goin’ back in there. Gonner find that boy, have a word.’
‘No, listen…’ Danny stepping in front of him. ‘Mostyn en’t there. I looked around. It’s just a promotional video. Fellers in there’s just punters and a few blokes as done it before, spreadin’ the word.’
‘Where is he?
‘I don’t know, Gomer.’
‘Ah, this is nasty, boy.’ Gomer’s ciggy hand was shaking, and that didn’t happen often. ‘Like goin’ back to the days when you got all kinds o’ scum lurkin’ in the hedges after dark.’
‘Only difference being,’ Danny said, ‘that this is rich scum payin’ for the privilege of crawlin’ through shit and brambles an’ freezin’ their nuts off in the snow. And freezin’ your nuts off en’t a crime.’
He watched a few blokes leaving the Hardkit tent with leaflets, some shaking hands with a bulky bloke he figured he’d seen before.
‘Cockfights is a crime,’ Gomer said.
‘Who said this got anything to do with bloody cockfights?’
‘I never thought, see. Must be goin’ bloody senile, boy.’
‘What – this Eugene was a cocker?’
‘Eugene, he wouldn’t have the patience to feed up a cock for the ring, but he let it go on, see. Glenda Morgan had a fair few spells in hospital, them last years, and Eugene let all sorts go on when her’s out the way. Few quid yere, few quid there. Bad blood, Danny boy. Kenny Mostyn’s a rich man now, and still out on the hills, middle of a blizzard, callin’ the shots. Why’s he need to do that?’
Danny had no answer. Unless that was how Mostyn got his rocks off.
Inside the dark green tent, the Hardkit DVD was starting up again, with a blast of metal and commentary: ‘ You know me. I’m Smiffy Gill. I’m a bloke likes to grab life by the balls.’
‘All right,’ Danny said. ‘You stay there, Gomer, you’ll only send your blood pressure through the roof. I’ll go back, see what I can do.’
The guy was outside the Hardkit tent and he’d been joined by another feller Danny recalled from the night of the storm.
Danny reckoned if he was right, one of them would have a bit of a Scottish accent. He strolled over.
‘’Ow’re you?’
They just looked at him. Danny nodded at the Hardkit sign.
‘Seems like good stuff.’
‘It’s very good stuff, ma friend,’ the bulky guy said.
Thickset, couple of days’ stubble. A big-money bloke on his day off. Danny put on a rueful smile.
‘Too bloody costly for me, I reckons.’
The other guy – sharp-faced and wary-eyed – said, ‘There are shorter, more economical courses that don’t involve staying here. But we’re not the best people to talk to about them. Sorry.’
‘Weeell,’ Danny said slowly, ‘thing is, I en’t that interested in the shootin’ weekends and all that. Just I was told to ask in yere about… other events.’
The Scots guy eyed him.
‘In connection with what?’
‘Poultry,’ Danny said. ‘Poultry contests. Kind o’ thing.’
‘Oh…’ The Scots guy grinned. ‘Right.’ Turned to his mate. ‘This gentleman’s looking for a poultry contest.’
‘I usually talks to Kenny, see. I was told he’d be yere, but he en’t.’
‘That’s quite true, ma rustic friend. He isn’t.’
‘I’d ring him,’ Danny said ‘but phones, you never knows who you’re talkin’ to, do you?’
‘You do not.’
‘See, I’d arranged to bring a bird. Kenny, he was gonner let me know when and where, kind o’ thing.’
Starting to sweat a bit now. If Kenny Mostyn was to walk in now, he’d be stuffed.
‘You’re a breeder yourself, then?’
‘Of many years standin’.’
Putting a bit of menace under his voice now. If you looked like a bit of a hard bastard, why not play to it?
‘Good for you,’ the Scots guy said.
Danny looked him in the eyes.
‘If this is a problem for you fellers, just forget you seen me. I’ll call by the shop tomorrow. If I can find the time.’
The two guys looked at each other.
‘Ah, well,’ the Scots guy said. ‘That possibly could be a wee bit too late, you know?’
‘Bloody is tonight, is it?’ Danny slapped his thigh. ‘Fuck.’
The bald guy gave the Scots guy a look, and the Scots guy looked at Danny with no fear at all but definitely a measure of respect.
‘Y’know how it is, pal. Busy guy, Kenny. But if you want to stick around, I believe he’s due to call in later.’
‘Sure to.’
Danny nodded, a bit curt, walked away without looking behind him, to find Gomer. They went back to the Jeep on the parking area, where they unwrapped the sandwiches that Danny’s wife Greta had put up for him, sat there eating them very slowly, not saying much, Danny pretty unsure how he felt about this.
It was around four-thirty before a battleship-grey BMW four-by-four pulled in. HARDKIT in a neat curve across the bonnet. They watched a man jump down. He had on a shiny suit and a bow tie and carried an overnight bag.
‘Wassis about?’ Gomer said.
Danny moaned.
‘Bloody dinner, ennit? It’s on the tickets Lol give me. This feller can’t be goin’ to no cocking tonight.’
‘Mabbe afterwards,’ Gomer said. ‘Mabbe a few of ’em, sittin’ with their cigars, watchin’ the feathers fly.’
‘Not yere. Savitch wouldn’t risk it.’
‘We better find out, then.’
‘Aw, Gomer…’
‘En’t gonner get a better chance.’ Gomer sat back, tilted his cap over his eyes. ‘Mabbe a long night, boy.’
59
Cheated
Darth Vaynor and Elly Clatter arrived in the CID room simultaneously, Bliss ejecting from his office, all caffeined-up.
‘I’m not wearing this, son. Not like she can hide in a cupboard under the frigging sink.’
‘Last her dad knew,’ Darth said, ‘she was living with a bloke in a flat in Belmont. We turn up there, front and back, only to find the guy in the sack with somebody else. Didn’t know where Victoria had gone. Didn’t seem too upset, mind.’
‘Just grateful he’d still got both eyes. How long since she went?’
‘Days. “Duh, whatever day this is” – that kind of guy, you know? Observant.’
‘Right.’ Bliss looked around. ‘Where’s Rich? I want this frigging city dismantled.’
Elly Clatter said, ‘Francis, if I could just-’
‘ What? ’
‘BBC are here. They-’
‘No! Tell them to piss off. Tell them we’ll let them know soon as-’
‘Francis.’ Elly’s hands on his shoulders. ‘They know. It’s all over the Net. Carly Horne was with some of her mates when Karen picked her up?’
Karen came over, nodding. Bliss moaned.
‘Kid’s a big social networker,’ Elly said. ‘There’s now a Friends of Carly Facebook site, campaigning for her release?’
Bliss let out his breath in a slow rasp. If he ever came face to face with the little twat who invented Facebook…
‘So what that means is?’
‘Sky,’ Elly said. ‘And
BBC News 24. So far.’
‘What it also means,’ Karen said, ‘is that wherever Victoria is, she’d have to’ve gone blind and deaf not to know we’re looking for her. Meanwhile, Carly’s denying everything and Joss is saying very little. Time for you to have a go, boss?’
‘Yeh,’ Bliss said. ‘I think it could be.’
Mentally sharpening a knife on a steel.
A mile or so before Ledwardine, Merrily’s phone chimed and she pulled onto the verge.
‘I don’t know quite what you were expecting,’ Fiona Spicer said, ‘but I’ve just been given the results of the post-mortem.’
It was as though her voice was in a straitjacket.
‘Natural causes.’
‘Oh.’
If he’d been younger,’ Fiona said, ‘they’d be using terms like… if I can say this… Idiopathic Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy? I’m told it means a sudden, inexplicable heart attack. In an older man, even one as fit as Sam, it’s… less inexplicable.’
‘Had you… any reason to think he had a heart problem?’
‘No, and if he had I’m not sure he would’ve told me. He liked to deal with his own problems. As you know.’
‘Yes. How do you-?’
‘Angry. Cheated. Angry that he won’t see his daughter married.’ Finally, fissures of a deep grief under her words. ‘Cheated by his God. Nobody to blame but his damned God. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes. I can understand it. Fiona-’
‘I’ve a few other people to call. And Emily’s arrived. Our daughter. And her fiance. I suppose that means they’ll release his body, so we can… Perhaps I could call you tomorrow, if that’s convenient – I do remember what Good Friday involves for a vicar.’
‘Whenever you like. If I’m in church, I’ll call you back as soon-’
She’d gone. Would not share the sob. Merrily put the phone on the dash and told Lol. Felt like she’d been kicked.
‘I realize people can go for years without knowing they have a heart condition, but this is… There may still be an inquest, but it’ll be a quickie. No reason for anything to come out. Not now.’
She picked up Lol’s hand, below the bandage. Since he’d told her about his minutes of fear inside Byron’s compound, she’d felt they were together again, in a deeper sense. Flitting in and out of one another’s energy fields, like neurotic damsel flies. It must not go on .
