by Phil Rickman
‘There’s now a body of opinion which maintains that, psychologically and sociologically, we took a wrong turning when we abandoned the spear and the bow for the plough. When we ceased to be hunter-gatherers and became farmers. Out of agriculture came urban life, a cauldron of constantly recycled energy. Out of urban life was born stress, frustration, crime, domestic violence. What we like to call civilization. Was this the Fall of Man? It’s an issue we’ll be debating in the studio in next week’s edition of Diggers. Join us then.’
Credits roll. A University of the Earth production for Channel Four.
Silence.
Cindy switched off the set.
‘Well.’ Marcus sat up. ‘No wonder he was guest of honour at the bloody Hunt Ball.’
‘Interesting, isn’t it, my loves?’
‘Notice he said “the original Green Man”. Not a million miles from the real Green Man.’
‘Some of the phrases are almost the same,’ Maiden said. ‘That about red and green. Of course, the Green Man may simply have seen that programme. Television puts ideas into people’s heads. This guy sees that programme, a week later he thinks it’s his own concept.’
Cindy slid the videotape into its sleeve. ‘The programme was transmitted, as far as I can make out, last July. The letter was received by Crucible nearly a year ago.’
‘Could have been the other way round, then. Falconer saw the letter. It fitted the angle he was after, so he developed the idea for his programme. Academics are terrible magpies, isn’t that right, Marcus?’
‘Vultures.’
‘It wasn’t printed, Bobby.’
‘Maybe somebody else printed it.’
‘Possibly,’ Cindy conceded.
‘The other alternative,’ Marcus said, expressionless, ‘is that Falconer wrote the letter himself. Why he’d do that, I don’t know. Maybe he was fishing for reaction.’
‘Well.’ Maiden stood up. ‘Why don’t we go and ask him?’
‘Yes. Get you out of the house, wouldn’t it, lovely?’
‘Why not?’ Marcus was on his feet. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t miss this for-’
‘I don’t think so,’ Cindy said. ‘I’d hate you to get over-emotional.’
‘Listen, Lewis, the bastard has some explaining to do. If there’s any basis to your crackpot theory, at the very least he’s going to have an idea of the kind of person stupid enough to be influenced by his ideas about the bloodlust of Neolithic man. Right?’
‘But at best,’ Maiden said, ‘all it does is link the letter-writer to the programme. The rest is conjecture. You’re both, in your separate ways, too close to this. I’ll go.’
‘Under what pretext, Maiden? As a copper? Or as the most wanted man in Britain, possibly unstable?’
‘I’ll have thought of something by the time I get there.’
‘You be very careful, Bobby …’ Cindy’s eyes were hooded, watchful. ‘In some ways, you are closer to this than either of us.’
XXXIX
She could picture the wounds all too clearly, and it didn’t make her feel sick, just angry as hell. She was supposed to sleep now? Go on up to bed, get in six hours, awake refreshed for the Saturday slaughterhouse shift?
Oh, aye, the perfect sedative: two people you’d got fond of, and the police were saying one had killed the other and they needed to put him away for his own good, and the hunt was on, nationwide.
Marcus had said no, absolutely not, no way was Bobby Maiden a murderer, which, naturally, he would. Clearly wanting to get her off the line. Which suggested Bobby was with him or he knew where Bobby was. And she ought to go down there, not least because the whole scenario had started to unroll under her own hands in A and E that day at 2.37 a.m. But even getting to the phone box had felt as public as the first bloody moonwalk.
Andy kept looking out of the window for strange cars in the street, but it wouldn’t be that obvious.
Sat down, with a fresh pot of tea. Closed her eyes, and there was Emma Curtis, a nice girl, a great girl, face up on some mortuary slab. She set down the cup and saucer, stood up and paced. If it wasn’t Bobby, then who?
If the bastard’s saying that, it’s a put-up job, Marcus said.
To put Bobby in the frame? Somebody killed her to hang it on Bobby, protect themselves? Some big, megalomaniac copper had it done? Did such things really happen? Jesus God, it made your head swell just to think about it. Made you want to drive down to Police HQ and accuse Riggs, very loudly, very publicly, of being bent as a coathanger. Pull the lid off the can of worms and hope the worms had wriggled all over town by the time they took you away. Get it in the Elham Messenger.
Sure. Two paragraphs, bottom of page nine. NURSE CHARGED WITH PUBLIC ORDER OFFENCES.
Jesus God, there had to be something she could do.
There was only one V. Clutton in the Elham phone book. There was no answer. After a few minutes, Andy decided to go and see Tony Parker.
They came out of Tewkesbury, in Gloucestershire, headed for the Cotswolds, the countryside looking milder, more ordered. Around twelve-thirty, Adrian suggested they grab some lunch.
‘Can we afford to stop for lunch? Will we make it in time?’
‘Loads of time,’ Adrian said. ‘Oh, but then, you wouldn’t know, would you?’
‘Huh?’
‘Matthew rang last night. They’ve decided to put off the ceremony until late afternoon, early evening. The Rollrights are open to the public, so they realized they were going to have quite a few unwanted guests — tourists, people like that. It is Saturday, after all. Anyway, Matt thought it would be a better atmosphere if they waited till dusk. Candles and lanterns and all that. Frightfully romantic.’
‘Right.’ Grayle was dubious. It was a dull day, but not too cold; an evening wedding would be, well … atmospheric. In a sinister kind of way. ‘You think that is a romantic setting? The Rollright Stones?’
‘You don’t?’
‘Well … maybe it just wasn’t a nice day when I went there. Seemed kind of a forbidding place. Which was odd, I guess, when you think how close it is to the road and all. It seemed, I dunno, kind of mean. The way the stones are like curly and notched and knobbly.’
She snatched a glance at Adrian to gauge his reaction. Saw a look of concern on his young-officer’s face. He said, ‘You really didn’t care for it?’
‘Maybe it was just an emotional reaction,’ Grayle said. ‘Probably the way I was feeling that day. I’d hoped to get some hard information about where Ersula could be, and I didn’t. Call it personal negativity. Nothing scientific.’
‘Because, you see, Grayle, this is a holy place. It’s not supposed to be … cosy. Any more than a great cathedral is. It’s an integral part of a huge, sacred pattern. Nobody, not even Roger, denies that any more. It’s another level. Another Britain. Which we’re only just finding our way around again.’
‘Right.’ Maybe it’s because Britain is so small, Grayle thought. If they want to discover anything new about it, it has to be on some invisible level.
‘And what we don’t understand, we naturally fear — people are just as primitive in that way as they ever were, they’re just more shielded from the dark. It’s a fear we’re jolly well going to have to conquer, those of us who want to evolve. All kinds of fears, all kind of blocks … we’re going to have to break through them. If we’re going to get in tune with the earth again. Before it’s too late.’
‘Aw, gee.’ Grayle pulled the gear lever to low, for a steep downward slope. How to put this … how to tell him she’d heard all this before. ‘See, you guys, you come on like, We got to tune in to holy places, we got to recover our lost knowledge, our forgotten ancient wisdom … Jesus, I used to talk like this all the time.’
‘And that’s the problem, isn’t it?’ Adrian put his big, warm hand over hers on the lever. ‘It’s all talk. It’s just a coffee table thing. So few people do anything. Imagine if the druids had simply … you know … theorized. Gosh, for them it was real
life … life and death. So if the Rollrights feel sort of brooding, that’s why.’
‘Uh, why?’ Grayle felt herself blushing, tugged her hand back to the wheel.
‘Because it’s been a working site. It isn’t all manicured and prettified like some monuments. Some of the New Age people would be absolutely horrified if they actually knew what it was like in the ancient days. They all think it was some sort of Golden Age and perhaps it was, but it was a cruel age too. Or rather people today might think of it as cruel, but it was necessary.’
‘You mean sacrifices.’
As they drove into the Cotswolds, the countryside was lightening up, the stone becoming golden against a white sky like the fluffy lining in a jewel box.
‘People try to close their eyes to it, Grayle. They say, Oh, even in the degenerate period when the priests practised human sacrifice, they only sacrificed criminals who deserved it. Well, what kind of a sacrifice is that? That’s not sacrifice, it’s execution. Surely, it’s only a real sacrifice if you give up the life of someone you don’t hate, who hasn’t done you any personal harm. And perhaps the ultimate sacrifice is to take, well … the life of a friend, I suppose.’
‘But when would it be worth losing a friend for?’
‘Oh, that’s just a modern attitude. Look at the Bible. God tested Abraham’s faith, his absolute conviction, by asking for the blood of his son. And off they went to a high place, a holy site, and they built an altar and Abraham took a knife …’
‘But that was just a test, surely. God never intended him to follow through.’
‘Depends how you look at it. Abraham was being shown that if he ever wanted true wisdom — to walk with the gods … I mean, people in several civilizations did sacrifice their children.’
‘Plus, this was the Old Testament God. Pre-Christ. We progressed from that stuff.’
‘But we didn’t progress, did we?’
‘In a lot of ways we did. Did Christ ask for blood sacrifices?’
‘Grayle, Christ was a blood sacrifice.’
This was all getting a little heavy for Grayle. After yesterday, she needed to lighten up. She’d hoped being with Adrian … good-looking guy, for heaven’s sake, rough-hewn, country-boy charm. Why’d he have to be so intense about all this? And who did that remind you of?
‘You talk about all this stuff with Ersula?’
‘Ersula understood. As an anthropologist. Oh yes, we’d talk for hours and hours.’
‘And Roger? Would she talk for hours with Roger?’
‘You’re asking me if she had an affair with Roger.’
‘You told me yesterday she left in a hurry.’
Well, you know … I mean …’
Adrian looked uncomfortable. Jesus, he was fine talking about ancient blood ritual and sacrificing your kids, but you changed the subject to, like, contemporary sexual relations, he got embarrassed.
‘… I suppose it’s possible.’
‘I know it’s possible, Adrian, but did it happen?’
Adrian swallowed, and Grayle began to see how it might have been: Adrian majorly turned on by Ersula, by her intensity, her passion for the past, the very stuff that put most guys off. But Ersula finds Adrian a little raw and gauche, especially up against Roger … smooth, eloquent, experienced … the kind of man who could intellectualize his way right into your pants.
Perhaps Falconer had it right; you needed to hunt, you needed the friction, the wind of the chase just to keep on living.
Maiden had come on foot. Cefn-y-bedd was less than a mile from Castle Farm, along the path towards the meadow, but instead of going up towards the Knoll you detoured down a half-overgrown footpath, over a stile and into the woods.
He felt a sharp edge of purpose. The fresh air sang with sensation. There was a light rain of crinkling leaves. Birds, probably undisturbed for months, flew for the exits. A squirrel sped across the path in front of him.
It was a curious state of mind. Not at all happy, but hyper-aware, so alive it ached. He was hunting Falconer, a man with a lot of questions to answer.
And yet, he kept looking behind him.
Leaves rustled in his wake. Twigs snapped. It was probably wildlife. Rabbits, birds. Not many people came this way; the wildlife would be spooked.
But he kept looking over his shoulder.
Quite a heavy crunch this time, and he spun round and thought he saw a face framed in foliage, and thought, in shock, Green Man, Green Man, Green Man.
The Green Man hunting him.
And then there was big noise everywhere and he didn’t know where to run as, with this huge, angry clattering, a helicopter, white and red, lifted up, apparently out of the centre of the wood, not fifty yards away, in a golden storm of October leaves.
Crows rose screaming. The helicopter hovered under the sheet of the sky, rotors churning. The helicopter was very hard-edged and real.
It meant that Roger Falconer was leaving.
Maiden breathed out slowly, in dismay. ‘Thank you. Thanks a bunch, Roger.’
The machine was directly above him now, and he instinctively bent and moved forward in a crouch, through the trees, and found he was on the edge of a clearing, with a big slab of flat, flesh-coloured concrete at its centre. He walked around the clearing, keeping close to the trees, watched the chopper banking, heading off south.
The crows calmed down. His spirits sagged. What would he have done anyway? Flashed his ID and hoped Falconer hadn’t heard the radio this morning?
It was all so flimsy, so fanciful. As the noise dwindled to a distant drone, he sat on a mossed and slimy fallen branch, head in his hands, the way he’d sat last night by the well at Collen Hall.
So convenient. So conveniently timed. Just hours after Cindy airs his wild theory about the mystical killer who needs to spill blood at holy places, the killer strikes again. Under Maiden’s nose.
A pigeon or something rattled in the bushes, like Cindy’s bangles on those bony wrists.
Cindy. This ageing transsexual (probably) actor, reduced to the end of the pier. Embittered by sneers, pining for applause, living half his life in a fantasy dimension where kites talk and shamans fly.
Grabbing his chance for a final blaze of public attention, Cindy invents a bizarre solution to the murder of his landlady’s daughter. Hampshire police kindly show him where the door is. He becomes obsessed. Any unsolved murder he finds in the papers, he works it into his theory. The police aren’t laughing any more; he’s become a nuisance. Finally, he’s reduced to trying to involve the failed magazine editor Marcus Bacton by convincing him there’s something unnatural about the death of his housekeeper. Only to find, conveniently staying with Marcus, another policeman. A sick, screwed-up policeman, ripe for conversion. But the policeman is sceptical. He needs to be shown the truth.
Maiden went cold. Was this it? Was this the truth? Had Cindy followed them in his old Morris Minor to Colleen Hall? Had Cindy given the performance of his life, casting himself in the role of the imaginary Ley Killer?
But he wouldn’t have had time, would he? Would Cindy have had time, after slashing Emma, to get back to St Mary’s to take the call from Maiden?
He’d been there all night. With Marcus.
No. You only assumed he had.
Maiden began to sweat with paranoia. He saw Cindy in his shamanic cloak of feathers, a giant bird of prey. In his hand a sacrificial knife. The theatrics, the melodrama. An actor manipulating reality.
A woman walked into the clearing from the other side.
Maiden dived back into the trees. She glanced his way just once. She was carrying a pickaxe. She hefted it, looked down at her feet. Swung the pick with both hands high above her head and brought it down.
So savagely that when the pick connected with the concrete all the breath came out of her in a sharp cry.
He watched her for several minutes. She was making a mess. Lumps of concrete spun across the helipad. Dust sprayed up at her flapping Barbour coat and into her dark,
curly hair. She didn’t care. She pushed one point of the pick into a crack and swung back from the handle, straining.
‘Damn you …’
The pick prised out a slab about eighteen inches across and she fell backwards, the handle clipping her under the chin. She screamed and let go and rolled over into the rubble.
‘Shit!’
Maiden walked out across the concrete. ‘Can I help?’
The woman froze on the concrete, contracting like a caterpillar, a hand at her jaw, looking up at him. For just an instant, she looked as if she might be terrified. Then she coughed and grabbed hold of the pick and came up scowling.
‘No. You can’t help. Go away. This is private land.’ She had the kind of voice that went naturally with words like private and land.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Piss off.’
‘Could take you a while to chop up the whole pad,’ Maiden said.
‘Are you going, or do I have to call-’
He took a chance. Call it intuition; there was something interesting here. He pulled out his wallet. It felt strange flashing the warrant card. Something the other bloke used to do before he died.
‘Police,’ he said.
She stared at him. This time the fear was real, but soon controlled. She was younger than he’d thought. Early thirties. She had a wide mouth, green eyes, the kind of take-it-for-granted, careless beauty that said breeding and then yawned.
He said, ‘And you are?’
‘Magda Ring. I work here.’
‘As?’
‘Admin manager. Controller.’
‘And the professor’s just taken off in his helicopter, and you’re fixing it so he can’t get back, right?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I … I was …’
Maiden smiled. She really couldn’t think of an adequate explanation of why she was hacking up Falconer’s helipad.
‘Look.’ Magda Ring rose up. ‘You might be police, but this is still private land. You can either tell me what you want or bugger off.’
He overturned a slab of concrete with his shoe. Underneath, there was red soil, stone, grit.
