by Phil Rickman
A few yards away, the shepherd lying dead. His dog, back arched, howling a pitiful protest at the vengeful heavens.
Energy. The hideous energy of violent death. In this painting, only Stonehenge was truly in its element. Whitened, as though lit from within by electric filaments, the stones exulted in the storm.
Inside his tightening chest, Maiden felt he was howling like the sheepdog.
The print, gilt-framed, hung at the foot of the wide wooden staircase in the panelled hall at Cefn-y-bedd.
A phone was ringing somewhere then stopped when an answering machine collected the call. Maiden’s chest felt bruised with memory. His mind rewinding at speed. The lightning striking again and again. Revelation. Big lights, a distant roar. Hospital smells. He remembered, the evening he walked out of Elham General, seeing Turner’s painting of the angry sea around Fingal’s Cave. Feeling that same tightness in the chest. It had not been the same image, but the style … the elemental rage … that was the same. What did it mean?
It meant this picture, this image, of stones and death, had been in his tumbling, dislocated dreams when Andy’s hands were around his head and the defibrillator was smashing at his ribcage.
Part of him came into you, Cindy said. Cindy, the has-been, end-of-the-pier shamanic joke.
Cindy had it right.
More crimes in heaven and earth…
Cindy, Godalmighty, was right. The intensity of it all made it impossible to stand still. He walked around the hall, arms and legs tingling with electricity, unable to pull his eyes away from the Turner: stones and energy and violent death.
‘It’s his favourite.’ Magda Ring glanced at him once, a flicker of uncertainty, as she shed her dusty Barbour on the hall floor. ‘Turner’s Stonehenge, 1828. You never seen it before?’
‘Not on a wall,’ Maiden said. ‘I’m sorry. I like paintings. You ready to talk now?’
Letting her think it had been a deliberate ploy, him appearing hypnotized by the print. A digression. Subtle, like a TV detective.
‘Prettier ones in here.’
Magda led him into a large, airy drawing room with a beamed ceiling and oak pillars, plush armchairs set out like a hotel lounge. And more Stonehenge prints: Girtin, Inchbold and Constable’s impressionistic sketch of the rain-washed megaliths with the double rainbow.
‘The sister called you in, I suppose.’
For a moment, he could only think of Sister Andy.
‘Grayle,’ Magda said. ‘Listen, Inspector, I didn’t know. I really didn’t know she was there. I didn’t know she was dead.’
‘I’m supposed to believe that?’ Detective-mode. ‘Why did you dig the hole? How did you know where to dig?’
‘Because …’ Her eyes flashed. ‘… to satisfy myself it was nonsense. I didn’t believe it for one minute, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. And this was the first chance I had to check it out. Adrian gone to his wedding, Roger up to town for the weekend. When he goes off in his helicopter, at least you can tell when he’s coming back.’
‘You must’ve grabbed the pick before he was over the horizon.’
‘Perfect time, I’m trying to tell you. Course starts next Wednesday. Staff — cleaners and people — start arriving this afternoon, get the place ready. No time to waste. Look, I had the pick ready round the back of the helicopter shed. I was going to allay my own fears once and for all. Oh God. I can’t believe it. It’s all destroyed, everything we worked for’s ruined. ‘
‘Magda, a woman’s dead.’ Before they left the scene, he’d placed concrete slabs back in the hole, covering the body. ‘You do know who it is, don’t you?’
‘The hair.’ Magda’s face puckered. She tightened her jaw, looked down for a moment. ‘Can I get a drink?’
‘Course.’
She brought whisky and tumblers from a stripped-pine corner cupboard. ‘You?’
He accepted a small one. Turned out to be the one which tasted of peat, damp and lonely, moorland meeting the sea, no visible horizon. It would be, today.
Sadness seeped through him. He saw Em, as Suzanne, sitting opposite, black hair, black eyes, mauve lipstick. The image crucified him.
Too much time passed and Magda was standing in front of him: tight black sweater, jeans with a spiked leather belt. Pale, but together.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, What are you?’ Magda said. ‘You’re not an ordinary policeman, are you?’
‘No such thing as an ordinary policeman.’
‘I mean, not local.’
‘Serious Crimes Bureau,’ Maiden lied. ‘We …’ He hesitated. ‘We’re investigating a series of murders linked to prehistoric sites.’
‘Whaaaat?’ Magda Ring was aghast. Sank down, involuntarily, into one of the armchairs. He observed her: she was loosened with shock, rather than relief at finally being found out; there was an obvious difference.
‘Look …’ Stared at him, green eyes wide, the colour scared out of her face again. ‘For God’s sake … this is nothing like … This isn’t murder. ‘
‘How long have you known she was there?’
‘I didn’t know, I keep telling you. I half thought it was fantasy. Everybody who comes here inhabits a fantasy world. It takes you over. The unseen Britain. The spirit-country. The whole earth-mysteries game. It’s to do with romantic theories to make us feel … connected.’
‘So whose body is it?’
‘Ersula Underhill. I thought you knew. The sister-’
‘Grayle. Sure. I’ve spoken to Grayle.’
‘Inspector, I believed … I swear to God I believed Ersula had gone back to the States. Because of Roger. And then the sister shows up, incognito, and obviously Ersula didn’t go back, and the sister suspects … something. Look, shouldn’t you be making phone calls? Summoning your forensic people. Whoever. Shouldn’t this place be buzzing?’
‘She’ll come to no harm down there.’
‘I want her out of here.’ Magda shuddered. ‘I want her safely stashed away in some path lab. I never liked her when she was alive. One of those … lofty, know-it-all Americans. Roger thought she was wonderful because she was so damn serious all the time, tons of extra gravitas to bluff the punters. Brings out the worst in me, though, that kind of attitude.’
‘That a fact?’
‘Look.’ Magda frowned. ‘If I’m going to have to watch every bloody thing I say, I want my solicitor here.’
Maiden sighed. ‘I’ve got no witness, you’re not in an interview room, you’re not being taped, and it seems unlikely to me that you killed her. All right?’
‘Delirious.’ Magda sniffed. ‘I’ve got to start looking for a job. It was good here, for a while. Until it got stupid.’
‘Why did it get stupid?’
She offered him more whisky; he shook his head.
‘Greed.’ Falling back in the chair, crossing her legs, the bottle on her lap. ‘Always bloody greed, isn’t it? He was the country’s most respected Neolithic archaeologist. Honorary fellow of Christ Church, etcetera, etcetera. And then he started doing TV. Wouldn’t think it could turn the head of a guy that educated, would you? Let me tell you, they’re the worst. Especially someone with a libido off the Richter scale who’s had to worry about the career risks involved in shafting too many students. Now, suddenly he’s getting fan letters on funny-smelling paper. Dear Professor, that shot of you stripped to the waist in the Roman villa just haunts me, so if you’ve got a spare place on any of your digs, I’d be happy to accommodate your trowel.’
‘The University of the Earth began as a supply-line for non-stop totty?’
‘Partly. Well, the big angle’s money, obviously. Roger wasn’t slow to pick up on the fact that a large proportion of the people writing in to the programme were New Agers and earth-mysteries fanatics trying to convert him. That’s where the real money is. People don’t want digs, where after six months you’ve uncovered some boring foundations and a few bits of pottery. They want the Ark of the bloody Covenant
. So … he starts to compromise. The reason I know all this, by the way, is I was his producer at the BBC. Before he realized he could quadruple his income overnight by making his own programmes for Channel Four, and I went with him, naturally, because who wouldn’t?’
Magda looked defiant, drank some whisky.
‘And, no, he wasn’t fucking me. Needed me too much. Doesn’t sleep with anybody he might need in two months’ time.’
‘As the abrupt termination of a loving relationship often offends,’ Maiden said wryly.
‘Quite. Which is also why he didn’t sleep with … her … Ersula. Woman after his own heart, you see. Talked crap in a very learned, intense way. Everything she said sounded like a balanced argument resulting from years of study. He loved that. He wanted to employ her. He wanted her mind. I mean, on the payroll. Whereas — this was the problem — she wanted him. Body and mind.’
‘Was she …’ All he could see was the puffed-up, blistered, decomposing face in the concrete tomb. ‘… good-looking?’
‘Not good-looking enough. Anyway, she was throwing herself at him. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the hunt? Sad. Like an undergraduate going for her tutor. Except this was a grown woman. Brilliant mind, sexual age of twelve. And she sets her sights on Roger Falconer? Save us! I mean, really clever woman, but not clever enough to realize what a sham he was. Have you seen his programmes?’
‘Just been watching one. About hunting.’
Magda nodded. ‘Good example. Very good example. That’s the one where he puts the esoteric case for blood sports?’
‘Linked to ley lines. Hard to tell whether he was serious or he’d just concocted it to take a poke at the New Agers. Interestingly, that same argument, about …’ He struggled to frame it.
‘Hunting feeding the earth?’
‘Mmm. It had been aired in a letter sent to this little pagan magazine some months earlier.’
‘God,’ Magda said. ‘You’ve really hit the spot, haven’t you? How long’ve you been looking into all this?’
‘Long enough.’ Sorry, Cindy.
Magda’s green eyes didn’t blink. ‘You’re right. It’s not his theory. He got it from Adrian. He gets everything from Adrian. It’s almost funny. I mean, have you met Adrian?’
‘No.’
‘He seems quite ludicrously harmless at first. Minor public-school idiot. Caricature. Sort of chap you see in old black and white films. I mean, you know, a hunk, for heaven’s sake, although he doesn’t realize it. Too engrossed. You can imagine him, as a child, collecting pictures of standing stones like other kids collected stamps.’
Magda uncrossed her legs, started to uncork the whisky then changed her mind and put the bottle on the floor.
‘He’s somehow not of this … not of this age. Very polite, very … courtly. He paid court to Ersula. In awe of her. Supervised her dreaming sessions. And when she became obsessed with all that, he mistakenly thought he was going to be part of the package.’
‘He was pursuing her and she was …?’
‘Pining for bloody Roger. I don’t know how Adrian didn’t realize that from the outset. But, as I say, he’s not of this age. Poor sod belongs in Jane Austen, you know what I mean?’
‘OK.’ Maiden thought they were wandering from the point. ‘What happened to Ersula?’
‘Vanished.’ Magda said. ‘Well, sort of. I mean … not unexpectedly is what I mean. One night, near the end of the summer course, she was closeted with Roger in his study for a long time, over two hours. I stayed out of the way, I could guess the kind of things being said. Fairly self-evident when she didn’t come down to breakfast next day. She was due to go with Roger and a group of students in a couple of minibuses. He sent me over to the stables to see what was wrong with her. Too professional, surely, to let a little emotional hiccup … etcetera, etcetera. Bastard. So I’m knocking on her door, she’s shouting, Go away, leave me alone, sob, sob, etcetera. So I had to go and shepherd the idiots around. When we got back, it was after dark. I didn’t see her, but the following morning she’d gone. Suitcases, everything.’
‘You didn’t try to find out where?’
‘How could we? Where would we start? She was American. She probably went back to America, to nurse her broken heart in the family’s Long Island beach house or wherever. Anyway, we had to see all the punters off the premises, and we were all pretty knackered.’
‘While you were away, where was …?’
‘Adrian?’ She pushed both hands through her dark, curly hair, exasperated at her lack of perception. ‘Good old Adrian was otherwise engaged that day. Taking delivery of a few truckloads of ready-mix concrete for Roger’s new helipad.’
‘Oh.’
‘Adrian’s terribly practical. Laid it all out, himself. You see, there’s a very significant ley line in that area. Goes through the woods, connects eventually with St Mary’s churchyard. Adrian said the helicopter shouldn’t come down on the ley because the Earth wouldn’t like it. So only one edge overlaps the line — don’t tell me how he worked out precisely where it goes, he just did. And he marked it with a row of crosses raked into the surface of the concrete, so we’d know where the ley went and Roger could avoid it when he landed.’
Magda stood up and walked to the biggest window, overlooking the courtyard.
‘So, naturally, that’s where I went to hack it up.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Listen, I know the guy. It’s what he’d do. The ritualistic side of him. He was besotted with her. He’d want to put her in a place where her spirit could fly.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And how do you think she died?’
‘She obviously killed herself. Someone that serious, that single-minded … and he spurns her, he says, Sorry, old girl, but you’re really not my type, have a drink … I don’t know how she did it. Pills or something. That’s for you to find out: Jesus, the stupidity of men.’
He waited.
‘This is Roger. This is the way he is. I know this is what happened. Wasn’t going to have a silly, hysterical girl’s suicide destroying his enterprise. I mean, the scandal, the publicity. You see, he has big expansion plans. More land-Castle Farm, when he gets old Bacton out. Wants that castle so badly, he’s drooling. A real little university. So he needs every punter he can get now, especially rich Americans.’
She stopped for a moment, working it out. She was an intelligent woman, Maiden thought. But she was wrong.
‘And they just buried her? Without a thought for the relatives?’
‘This is Roger Falconer we’re talking about. Of course he wouldn’t think about the relatives. And Adrian would do as he was told. He needs this job.’
‘What about her possessions, her cases?’
‘There’s an old forge out at the back. Adrian restored it last winter. Likes to make himself useful. Perhaps they burned the cases there, I don’t know.’
Maiden stood up. ‘I use your phone?’
‘Table in the hall.’
Maiden called Castle Farm. Cindy answered. Maiden said, ‘Cindy, get over here. Wear trousers.’
XLII
Outside, the Morris Minor spluttered indignantly.
Marcus felt that way, too. He glared resentfully at the front door as the Morris chugged away.
The bastard hadn’t explained. Other than to say he’d been summoned to Cefn-y-bedd, suggesting Marcus hold the bloody fort. Which made Marcus furious, because if anyone was going to tackle Falconer it should have been him.
To make it worse, Lewis, the smug bastard, had buggered off upstairs, bracelets jangling, and come down five minutes later looking not entirely unlike a normal man. He was going to Cefn-y-bedd to play it straight.
And whatever was happening there, Marcus Bacton was being excluded. On grounds of age and infirmity … and the likelihood of his causing a scene, no doubt.
Bastards.
Irritable and unsettled, Macus slumped back to the stud
y. Amid the clutter on the desk were the cup-stained maps with leys drawn in, the book displaying an illustration of the Green Man. And the Edwardian photo album.
He opened the album at the picture of Annie Davies, from which Grayle Underhill had identified her ghost. Annie’s eyes, in the sepia picture, looked aeons old. He tried to see in them the birdlike eyes of Mrs Willis and couldn’t.
If Underhill hadn’t reacted to that photo, he would have chanced his arm with another one. In colour. Girl in a deckchair, wearing her mother’s sunglasses and a very sad and knowing smile. Sally’s last summer. Marcus blinked away the tears as the phone rang.
‘Marcus,’ Andy Anderson said. ‘Listen to me. Don’t argue, all right?’
‘Haven’t the strength to argue with you, Anderson. Where are you?’
‘I’m … doesnae matter. Marcus, you take Bobby and the dog and get the hell out.’
‘… bloody hell …?’
‘Just do it. You may have visitors, know what I’m saying?’
‘Maiden’s not even here. I’ll simply tell them I’ve never heard of him.’
‘I’m no talkin’ about the police. All right? Y’understand what I’m saying? This is bad guys, Marcus. Won’t take no for an answer.’
Marcus was suspicious. ‘How can you possibly know about this?’
‘Doesnae matter. I know. This is no a scam. These people, they won’t want any witnesses. That means you, Marcus. This is very, very bad guys, y’hear me?’
Marcus pondered a moment.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I get the message.’
‘Thank Christ. Act on it. I’ll call back in ten minutes’ time, I don’t expect an answer.’
Anderson hung up.
Marcus didn’t move for a whole minute. He looked out of the window at the empty yard. The castle ruins firm against a white sky. He remembered how excited it had made him feel when he first saw it, when he realized the castle came free with the house.
From his inside breast pocket, he pulled the colour photo of his daughter in the deckchair. The sunglasses with diamante frames, too big for her.
