The Cold Calling cc-1

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Natural balance, isn’t it? But, hell, Adrian, yours don’t even get a chance to run …’

  ‘I’ll kill you … You miserable piece of town-bred vermin. When this is over I’ll take you away to somewhere less sacred and I’ll kick the life out of you. In the meantime, you’ll shut your drivelling mouth and-’

  ‘You don’t kill.’ Bobby’s voice battling against the rain singing on the stones. ‘The Earth kills, remember? You can’t do it on your own. And the moment’s gone. The lightning’s over. Storm’s past. It’s raining. You’ve lost it. You can’t do it without the lightning.’

  Please God, Grayle thought, no more lightning. Please God … Please Cindy …

  ‘Also …’ Bobby said from somewhere down on the ground between Adrian and the back rails. ‘Also, this is Grayle … You killed her once. And it wasn’t her. You blew it. Got it wrong … Grayle’s bad luck for you, Adrian.’

  ‘I do not get it wrong! ‘

  ‘You’re always getting it bloody wrong. What about the barbed wire in Wales? Put it out for a man, you catch a young lad. But he didn’t die, did he? You screwed up.’

  Silence. Other noises behind the spattering on the stones. The smell of smoke from the pines. Grayle felt the rain pouring down her face, blurring her vision. Her clothes like a second, sodden skin. She was afraid to blink.

  Adrian said, ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Ah,’ Bobby said. ‘Didn’t tell the stones, did you? Didn’t tell the stones you screwed up.’

  Distant sheet lightning, no more than a veil. Grayle cringed. The barrel twitched. Oh Jesus. Involuntarily, Grayle squeezed her eyes shut, screamed, ‘Adrian, do you know who you shot down there. You shot Charlie … shot the goddamned minister!’

  ‘Well, good!’ he screamed back through the torrent. ‘Charlie was a disgrace. Charlie took drugs!’

  ‘And what the fuck did you give to Ersula?’ Bobby yelled.

  ‘You watch your filthy, vermin mouth …’

  ‘Maybe Grayle would like to know what else you don’t tell the Earth. Hey, considering where we are, considering how stones record, maybe the Earth would like to know what happens when you … when you take a sacrifice … when you pull the trigger … bring down the rock … sink in the knife … shove … shovel in the gravel and the concrete … When the earth-energy floods into your system like golden light? and you feel this … blinding joy? Maybe Grayle and the good old Earth goddess … your mother … your holy bride … would like to know what happens then, how you always come in your pants, when …’

  ‘You filthy … swine …’

  Grayle’s eyes jerked open to the sight of Adrian up on the lone recumbent stone, screaming, holding the rifle by the barrel, smashing it down on Bobby Maiden, Bobby shouting, ‘Get off the line, Grayle, get off the fucking line …’

  And then it was all lights.

  L

  ‘… that supposed to mean?’ On the edge of the headlight beams, the guy looked worn out, two days’ grey stubble.

  ‘Tony sent you, right?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Nothing to do with Riggs, like.’

  ‘I don’t work for Riggs.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Well, nobody does, do they? Nobody works for Riggs, officially.’

  ‘Look, Sister,’ Vic Clutton said. ‘Time’s getting on. I’ve got a bit of cleaning up to do before I leave.’

  ‘I hope that doesnae include me, pal.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be bloody daft.’ Clutton pulled a gun, a black pistol, out of his jacket pocket, tossed it into the dirt. ‘Pick it up. Feel safe.’

  Andy ignored the gun. ‘What happened to your oppo over there?’

  ‘Shit, Sister, you gonner let me get a word in? Parker …’

  Andy took a breath.

  Clutton said, ‘Parker had me down here to keep an eye on Em.’

  ‘Didnae do a great job there, Victor.’

  ‘Look!’ Avoiding her eyes, talking rapidly to his shoes. ‘I was to watch her. Getting into bad company — policemen, this kind of business. He wanted to know how far it’d gone. I follow her down here, she picks Maiden up and I tail her and him to this hotel.’

  ‘You were in that very same hotel?’

  ‘Leaving them to get on with it. Well, I mean, that’s her business. She’s a free spirit. I’ve got no objection to a swish B and B on Parker’s tab, even if I’ve got to stay out of the bar and the dining room and that. And yeah, yeah, to my shame, I didn’t know nothing till next morning, when the premises are crawling with filth, and …’ A glint of tears. ‘… I have never been so shattered in my life, Sister. That girl …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Plus, I liked the guy, in spite of he was filth. He was clean filth, you know what I mean? I couldn’t handle it. I pissed off, building up the courage to phone Parker — hardest call I ever made. I start gabbling, I say, I don’t care what you want, Mr Parker, but, with all respect, me, what I want, I want Maiden …’

  ‘You’re saying you came down after Bobby on your own? So who’s this other guy?’

  ‘Yeah, I come back here. I’m gonner hang around till he come out. I’d’ve hung around a week … longer. But he come out, all fresh and clean, and he’s off over the fields, down the wood, and I’m straight in there after him. Woods? Fine by me. Good a place as any.’

  ‘Just like that, eh? Regardless of he didnae kill the girl. And you with that gun?’

  ‘No way.’ Vic Clutton looked at his hands. ‘That’s not mine, anyway. Way I was feeling, I didn’t need no shooter. I was gonner take him apart. When he meets up with this posh tart, I’d’ve took ‘em both apart. Only, this tart, she’s got a pick and she’s hacking up this concrete, sorter thing … and … Well, there’s a fucking stiff down there.’

  ‘You what? ‘

  ‘Yeah. I’m thinking … what? He done another one? What’s occurring? You know? Next thing, they’re off up this big house and then this other bloke’s arriving in this crappy old motor, and after a while him and Maiden drives off, and I’m on foot, aren’t I?’

  ‘What time’s this?’

  ‘Two … three … I dunno. Afternoon. I figure maybe they’ve come back here or they’re gonner come back here, so I trudge back and I’m laying low, and it’s getting dark and no Maiden. Then this white van pulls in and out jumps these blokes and … shit, I know ‘em. Last seen in Maiden’s flat … you remember that business?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Andy walked over to the corpse. ‘Who is this guy? And where’s-’

  ‘Name’s Bez.’

  He was shambling across the yard, a short, fat guy in a tartan dressing gown. The big, stupid bull terrier trotting alongside like this was big walkies time.

  ‘Don’t ask me what kind of bloody name that is, Anderson. And he’s fucking well dead, and I’m merely dying, so if you happen to have your little nurse’s outfit with you …’

  Vic said, ‘Mr Bacton, I thought I told you to lie down.’

  The cops came in from all directions almost simultaneously.

  In force. Four cars and a van. The van was directly into the field, all these guys tumbling out with automatic rifles. The whole place surrounded. Portable lights. The stone circle cordoned off, armed guys around the back of the pines — some of them still smouldering in the hard, vertical rain.

  A helicopter hovered above the Whispering Knights with a searchlight in case Adrian Fraser-Hale should overpower the three detectives and the four Armed Response blokes and make a break for it across the fields.

  Seemed Adrian wasn’t in the mood. When he saw the van coming, he’d stopped hitting Bobby with the gun and he’d turned it round and Grayle had thought, Jesus, he’s gonna put it in his mouth. But Adrian had just looked at the gun in dismay, like checking the barrel wasn’t bent or anything, and then the cops were screaming at him, ordering him to lie down. Grayle too. Also Bobby, except the poor guy already was.

  Adrian, handcuffed, was
looking kind of affronted. Offended. The way he’d been a couple times on the journey from Cefn-y-bedd.

  ‘In the van,’ the senior-looking white-haired cop said. Bobby knew him, called him Ron.

  As the back doors of the van flung open, Adrian turned, looked at them, didn’t seem to see anyone.

  ‘It was all so absolutely right,’ he insisted. ‘I couldn’t get over how right it was.’

  They shoved him in. The doors were slammed.

  ‘What did that mean, Bobby?’ Ron said.

  A hand over one eye, blood oozing between the fingers, Bobby demonstrated to Ron how the Rollright Stones could be perfectly viewed in the gap, no more than a foot wide, between two of the Whispering Knights. Now, with all the lights in the circle, it looked almost too easy a target, far closer than four hundred yards.

  ‘One megalithic site to another,’ Bobby said. ‘Bang.’ He sighed. ‘How many? He got two shots off.’

  ‘Killed the vicar outright,’ Ron said. ‘One through the back. Another bloke caught one in the thigh, so he’ll be OK. Ambulance on its way. Better take you, too. After we charge you.’

  ‘That a joke?’

  ‘Let’s bloody hope so. Stupid bastards. Whoever decided to put your name out, they should be for the jump.’

  ‘Riggs.’

  ‘Still need a good explanation. Bloody hell.’

  ‘He’ll have one. He always has one. So who called you out?’

  ‘Message from West Mercia. Woman reported a body buried in concrete down near the Welsh border, Hay-on-Wye area. Funny name …’

  ‘Magda Ring.’

  ‘Yeah. After they see that body, they start taking her a bit seriously. Mind you …’ Ron smiled ruefully. ‘… if she hadn’t given West Mercia the name Fraser-Hale and a photograph, we’d probably have let him go and pulled you for the lot, Bobby. Yes, David …’

  A uniformed sergeant came over. ‘Sir, there’s a bloke …’ He coughed. ‘… a bloke in a bird-suit.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ Ron said. ‘This is the Rollright bloody Stones. Tell him to piss off.’

  Grayle saw Bobby Maiden grin. It looked like it hurt.

  Two cops took her back to the circle. Nobody was allowed out of it, despite the downpour. Just about everybody got searched. Charlie’s body had been covered up. There were some cases of latent hysteria. Janny Oates, still unmarried, was not among them. Two policewomen were with her under an umbrella. She was entirely silent, deep in shock. Drenched with blood and all of it Charlie’s.

  Jesus. Grayle could only feel numb.

  Andy took Marcus back inside, made him lie on the study sofa, Malcolm across his feet. Checked him over for broken bones, but Marcus carried plenty of padding. Cheekbone was a possibility. It was hard for him to talk, which was a mercy for all of them. He should be in hospital; some chance.

  Round the back of the house, Vic showed her the body of a man called Gallow. Some of his head had been blown away.

  ‘You’re looking at contract boys,’ Vic said. ‘The hiring’s always done through a third party, sorter thing, maybe even a fourth party. Riggs wouldn’t touch ‘em with coaltongs. These boys would never even’ve heard the name Riggs.’

  Vic and Andy both wore gloves for this. Vic did most of the carrying; he’d found some sacking in the barn and tied it round his waist with orange baler twine.

  Andy said, ‘So when Riggs found out where Bobby was, thanks to my foolishness, he took no steps at all to bring him in. He just made a phone call.’

  ‘Prove it,’ Vic said.

  ‘Word has it,’ Andy said, ‘that if you yourself turned Queen’s Evidence, or whatever they call it, enough stones might get turned over to open up a path direct to Riggs’s door.’

  ‘I helped fit up several small operators, sure. Including Dean, my lad, God rest him. But that was for Parker. I won’t drop Parker in it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Andy said, ‘you wouldnae’ve heard, would you?’

  They put both bodies in the back of the white van. They put the guns in too — the sawn-off and the pistol Vic had found near Bez’s body and used on Gallow when he was about to kill Marcus.

  Vic found the keys to the van in Bez’s pocket. He said he’d probably drive down the Wye Valley and dump the van somewhere near the Severn Bridge. There was a mess of link roads around a half-built industrial estate. He’d walk to the motorway services, get himself a lift with a lorry driver to anywhere. Stay out of sight for a week or two. Maybe grab a holiday, Minehead or somewhere.

  ‘And you’ll think about what I said?’ Andy said.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Andy walked back to the farmhouse and wondered, not for the seventeenth time, what it would really be like living here.

  LI

  Cold. The stones prickly with frost. She had to touch, just once, before she walked away, dug her hands into coat pockets.

  Hallowe’en, night of the dead, didn’t seem like a good time for this. But, then, it wasn’t Hallowe’en any more. What did they call the day after Hallowe’en? Was that All Saints Day or All Souls Day? Anyway, the Celtic New Year, Cindy said, so that was OK. And a new moon, too. Must count for something.

  And I’m still here, Grayle thought. What am I doing still here, waiting for the start of some stupid ceremony to rehabilitate a pile of rocks?

  The pre-dawn wind was kicking at the grass, rattling the gorse bushes. There were no bad vibes around the place, but no good vibes either.

  Just some old stones and a bunch of dysfunctional fruitcakes.

  After two days of questions and statements and assuring them that she’d return in good time for the trial, Grayle had left Oxford in a fresh hire car. They’d found the little red Rover up against a field gate, couple of hundred yards from the path to the Whispering Knights. Backed up, ready to go. Another sign that Adrian had seen no reason why he wasn’t going to walk away from this.

  At Duncan Murphy’s place, Grayle had spent a half-hour on the phone to her father. She told him Ersula was dead, murdered by a clean-shaven, nicely groomed, old-fashioned, well-spoken, all-round decent guy who loved his country. Then she burst into tears. Her father had not asked when she planned to return. Her father only ever had one daughter.

  Precisely what Adrian Fraser-Hale had done to Ersula, Grayle did not, at that time, know.

  Soon, the whole world would know.

  Somehow, without quite figuring out why, Grayle had found herself driving west again. Tuesday night, she was back in her depressing old room at the Ram’s Head in the village of St Mary’s. Along the passage from an even crummier room occupied by one Sydney Mars-Lewis.

  ‘I should go home,’ she said to him in the bar that night. ‘But I feel so restless. So dislocated. So … so goddamned angry.’

  ‘A hundred years ago …’ Cindy was wearing his insouciant smile. ‘… he would have been hanged and his body brought back and laid out on the capstone at Black Knoll so that everyone damaged by him could walk up and watch him rot. Would that have helped?’

  ‘Get outa here,’ Grayle had said.

  Now she looked at the High Knoll burial chamber and thought maybe this was what they were about to do. Kind of.

  Someone put an arm around her waist. She looked up into an eyepatch.

  Bobby Maiden hadn’t been back to Elham. He’d been in Hereford for two weeks, engaged the whole time on the Fraser-Hale case. Sitting in on the days of interviews with Adrian, who was co-operative and expansive and sometimes — although never quite, for Maiden — almost charming.

  Different people kept listening to the tapes. ‘Load of balls,’ Armstrong would say periodically. ‘Whichever way you look at it, the feller’s bloody mental.’

  Armstrong being the detective superintendent in charge now. Because Adrian was so polite and co-operative, Armstrong didn’t hate Adrian.

  He hated Cindy instead.

  ‘I don’t understand where that mad Welsh poof comes into it,’ he’d say every time Maiden st
rongly suggested they consult Cindy about some arcane issue relating to earth-magic. Armstrong hated having Cindy in the same room. Seymour, the forensic psychologist inflicted on the team, hated having Cindy in the same county.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, lovely,’ Cindy said. ‘How would I have coped with all that fame at my age?’

  He did send one letter to Superintendent Armstrong. It suggested they should never become blase or loosen the security around Adrian Fraser-Hale. That they should be very careful about which police stations or remand centres he was to be held in, which courtroom was to be used for his trial, which prison or unit for the criminal insane was to house him for perhaps the rest of his life. Cindy advocated the use of an Ordnance Survey map and a ruler.

  Armstrong showed Maiden the letter before he shredded it. ‘Tell this old toerag if he pesters me again I’ll nick him for wasting police time.’

  Maiden wondered whether he was going to quit the Job, officially, before or after the court case.

  But he still wanted Riggs.

  One night, he had a call from Mike Beattie to say his car had been found in Telford Avenue, jacked up on bricks, all four wheels gone, what did he want doing with it? Oh, and had he heard old Tony Parker was no more?

  Sure. He’d heard it all from Andy, who’d given herself either two weeks’ holiday or a nervous breakdown, depending how Elham General wanted to play it. She was staying in the dairy cottage at Castle Farm to care for Marcus, who, in Maiden’s view, was playing weaker than he actually was. But not too weak to keep ringing Maiden up in Hereford, asking if they’d arrested Falconer yet.

  Unlikely. Falconer was coming over dumbfounded. After all, just look at the chap, would you think he was capable? Does he look like a Peter Sutcliffe, a Charles Manson, a Jeffrey Dahmer, a Fred bloody West?

  ‘The University of the Earth will quietly fade away,’ Magda Ring predicted over a lunchtime drink in the Ram’s Head. ‘I’m expecting a lump sum from Roger. What I think is called a Golden Gag. Of course, I could probably equal it, were I to write the full story of Roger and Adrian for one of the Sundays.’