by Phil Rickman
Her husband.
It was like a confession. When you worked with Sophie, a whole new depth of meaning attached itself to the phrase cathedral close.
‘In his capacity as senior partner of Andrew Hill Associates.’
Architects. Sophie’s husband was semi-retired now, took his golfing shoes to the office.
‘He knows the estate agent who handled the sale of that house. And who sold it more than once. Geoffrey Unsworth of Lang/Copper in Bridge Street.’
‘And?’
‘Mr Geoffrey Unsworth, who’s been there all his working life… knows some history. And will talk to you about it this afternoon. Mr Unsworth hasn’t worked mornings since he turned eighty.’
‘And he’d tell me… what?’
‘Better to hear it from him. You might wish you’d known it before you… Although what difference it would have made I’m not sure. It doesn’t….’ Sophie shook her head in exasperation and bafflement. ‘Sometimes I think these things are not supposed to make to make sense, only to confuse us. Make us realise that we aren’t in control.’
Merrily said nothing. She’d known few people who were more in control than Sophie.
‘The second thing - about half an hour before you came in, I had a call from a woman. Is this the exorcist’s office? I asked her what she wanted. She said she wanted to tell the so-called exorcist that she was a phony and a sham. And should be arrested for the murder of Jonathan Mahonie.’
Merrily found she’d sat down.
‘Hysterical nonsense. Didn’t give me her name. Said it was a disgrace that we were offering a so-called service we were too weak to expedite. She didn’t use those words, but that was what she seemed to be saying. About ten minutes later, there was a second call, I think from the same woman. Perhaps hoping you would answer this time. When she heard it was me again, she just laughed. They laughed. Two or three of them, I think. And then they were gone. Mobile, I imagine.’
‘I see.’
‘I rang 1471. They hadn’t bothered to conceal the number.’ Sophie slid a square of paper, a Post-it note, across the desk. ‘That’s the number, in case.’
‘Of what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sophie’s hand was out again. ‘Keys.’
11. Bang!
Lang/Copper weren’t the biggest estate agents in Hereford. Their office in Bridge Street, a three-minute walk from the cathedral, had darkwood furniture and just the one small window halfway up the wall, with old pictures of farms, mostly. Doubtless the same office they’d occupied when young Geoffrey Unsworth joined the firm in the 1950s. Maybe some of the same pictures, brown as cave-paintings.
Mr Unsworth wore a dark suit with a waistcoat. A pocket watch with a chain might have completed him.
He pushed the yellowing particulars towards Merrily. He’d had them ready.
A unique, architect-designed detached house in a third of an acre of secluded grounds, yet close to Hereford city centre.
‘It really was secluded back then,’ Mr Unsworth said. ‘So much more woodland overlooking the city in those days.’
He didn’t look eighty. His flat hair was still mainly brown, his face oddly unlined. Maybe the sepia air in here had mummifying qualities. He brought out a name.
‘Harry Clifton?’
Merrily shook her head.
‘Architect and property developer. Mostly commercial buildings. Look rather awful now, the ones that are left, all that concrete and glass and sliding metal doors.’
They were alone in the office, although there was a second, smaller desk with a woman’s coat over the chair back. Mr Unsworth tilted a smile.
‘I haven’t seen that house lately. Well, not inside. Is it wearing well?’
‘Erm… I’d say it probably was.’ The house grinned savagely in her mind; she stiffened against a shudder. ‘I don’t even know what it’s called. I was just told to look out for the new house. Which, of course, it isn’t any more, but…’
‘That’s right.’ Mr Unsworth leaned back in his armchair, in a headmasterly way. ‘That’s what it was called. The New House.’
‘Oh.’
‘Harry Clifton came here from Birmingham in about 1960. Very much on the make. Thought he could put one over on the Hereford yokels. Bought a lot of barns for conversion, re-sold them with residential plans.’
‘The fashion for barns… I suppose it would be in its early days back then.’
‘Indeed. A man ahead of his time. How all this came about… he did some work for a rather cash-strapped farmer, Johnny Morgan, who owned land backing on to Aylestone Hill. Johnny thought he’d get permission for a small amount of housing on some ground on the lower fringe. Tide him over his cash-flow sort of thing. Thought planning was in his pocket and commissioned Clifton to produce quite detailed plans. But there were local protests and - quite shocking in those days - planning permission was unexpectedly not forthcoming.’
‘Gosh.’
‘Johnny Morgan had jumped the gun and was left owing Clifton a considerable amount of money. Which he didn’t have. Clifton was, of course, unsympathetic. Forced Johnny to pay, as it were, in kind.’
With a hint of professional relish, Mr Unsworth recounted Clifton’s hard bargain, which had led to him acquiring, as settlement, a few acres of what he knew would one day prove to be prime building land.
‘Well. Considerable bitterness, Mrs Watkins. Considerable bitterness. Part a farmer from land he has no wish to sell and you don’t make a friend. Certainly not in this case. Been in his family for centuries, you see.’
‘But if he planned to put housing on it…’
‘Oh no, no, no… not that land. No, the field he’d earmarked for housing was on the flatter ground below. But Clifton, canny chap, wanted this smaller area, up on the hill itself, overlooking Johnny’s farmhouse. Where he knew he’d probably get immediate permission for a house because, you see, there’d been one there before.’
‘You mean on the site where the New House…?’
‘Where that sixties abomination now stands, there was a previous house. Or, at least, the shell of a house that was never finished.’
‘Oh… Why, er…?’
‘Ha! Well. It was to have been the home of Johnny Morgan’s grandfather, Grenville Morgan. Grenville… had also been the victim of some unwise investment. Not to mention personal difficulties. His wife had left him, you see, and he was rattling around in the farmhouse… so he decided his son and his young family should have it, and he’d build himself a smaller house. Something farmers often do, and the planners are always sympathetic. So work started in the top field on what would be a sort of eyrie, where Grenville could watch the farm. You know what farmers are like.’
‘At their worst in retirement?’
Mr Unsworth beamed.
‘You know your way around then, Mrs Watkins.’
‘My grandad was a farmer. In North Herefordshire.’
‘Oh, really?’ Mr Unsworth raised an eyebrow. ‘What was his name? No, no, tell me later, I’ll lose my thread. Yes, Grenville Morgan - he was before even my time, but my father knew him - seems to have been a somewhat abrupt sort of man. Hairline fuse and free with his fists, especially after a few drinks. Wife left him as a result of domestic abuse, as it would be called now. Well… what we think of as abuse now, in those days was simply a matter of giving the wife a clip around the ear if your dinner was unsatisfactory. In this instance, one clip too many, apparently. Evidently came as quite a surprise when she actually moved out. Children long grown-up by then.’
‘Pre-feminism, too. Gosh.’
‘Cost him money, even then. And a bad harvest, that year. Had to stop work on the new house. Four walls but no roof when he took his shotgun in there.’
‘Oh.’
‘A proud man, you see, Mrs Watkins. And an aggressive man. Came to abrupt decisions, and no going back. Certainly not this time. Was probably just after a rabbit or something when, I imagine, a wave of rage and despair overtook
him. The sheer injustice of life. Bang! Both barrels.’ Mr Unsworth’s eyes actually gleamed. ‘Don’t know whether it’s true, but it was said they found bits of… brain and bones and whatnot outside the walls.’
Merrily winced. Mr Unsworth looked over his glasses, mouth drooping in mock-regret.
‘Sorry about that. Andrew Hill did say I should tell you everything I knew. On the instructions of his good lady.’
‘Andrew didn’t know Harry Clifton, then.’
‘Before his time as an architect. And Clifton’s dead now.’
‘Did he ever live at the New House?’
‘Oh, for a while, yes, with some woman or other. Houses and women, always the same. Never together long. In this case, Clifton knew that once one house was built up there, it was only a matter of time before permission was given for more. But, the way things turned out, building that project took rather longer than he expected. He’d demolished the remains of Grenville Morgan’s house, but nothing much seemed to happen for quite some years. Talk of arguments with builders. Bad workmanship. At one point he started again, put in new foundations. Small hitches, perhaps, but… nothing seemed to go right.’
‘As if the place didn’t want to be built on? Sorry…’ Merrily feeling herself blush. ‘I get carried away sometimes.’
‘You may not be far out, my dear. I know that, at one stage, he was blaming Johnny Morgan for causing actual damage to his building site. Johnny had even tried to buy the land back at some stage, when his financial situation improved. Well… Clifton wasn’t having that at any price. Confidentially, wouldn’t have surprised me too much if Johnny had done some damage. Relations, by this time, were somewhat beyond repair. Especially after the trees were sawn down.’
‘Sorry…?’
‘After the old chap blew his head off, Johnny’s father, Jim Morgan planted about twenty trees - fast-growing conifers - below the house. To block it from view. So that the half-finished house couldn’t be seen from the farmhouse. And the farmhouse couldn’t be seen from… from up there. Wouldn’t have dared to do that when Grenville was alive, but now…’
‘He didn’t want to be looking up all the time at the place where his father… ?’
‘Yes, that’s… that’s one way of looking at it.’
Merrily glanced at him.
‘Well,’ Mr Unsworth said. ‘You’re the exorcist.’
‘You mean he was worried that his father might still be…’
‘…watching over his farm?’ Mr Unsworth laughed. ‘Well, who knows? Never catch Jim Morgan talking like that. And yet I doubt he ever went up there. Let the skeleton of the house become overgrown. When Johnny took over the farm, he did some clearing up, but the trees remained. Both would’ve denied any suggestion of superstition, but you know what farmers are like, even today.’
She nodded. When you inherited a farm, you accepted responsibility for more than the health of the land and the stock.
‘Almost came to violence when those trees came down.’
‘Clifton had them taken down?’
‘I’d guess to show he wasn’t intimidated by Johnny. Who goes storming up there soon as the chainsaws started up. Dire threats made. But then Harry Clifton wasn’t a man who reacted well to threats. If you showed weakness, or even sympathy, you’d never get what was owed to you. Was this why he did it? I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry - did what?’
‘Built that house… as it is. Abandoning his original plan, for a fairly traditional dwelling in favour of something more on the lines of the commercial buildings he designed. Only more so.’
‘You mean—’
‘Well, this was the 1960s, anything new… And of course, Clifton knew a number of useful councillors by now, having designed extensions and whatnot for their homes. At bargain prices. Or even free. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how these things work.’
‘No. No, you don’t.’
‘So Johnny Morgan had to look up at that. Planted what was virtually a new wood just beyond his farmhouse to block it out. Block himself in, more like.’
‘So are you… are you saying the house was built partly out of a kind of…’
‘Malice?’ Memory clouding his eyes. ‘No one could say there wasn’t a vindictive side to Harry Clifton.’
‘Where’s Johnny Morgan now?’
‘Oh, still alive. Living the other side of Leominster. Eventually sold up. Sold everything.’
‘And now the New House is on the edge of a housing estate.’
Awful eyesore. Anita Wells last night. There used to be more trees in front and a high hedge. Zoe was so proud of it she had to have it all cleared.
‘In full view of a lot of people now,’ Merrily said.
Thinking of the show it had put on last night. A quiver. Jesus, stop me.
‘Hard to say which of them won in the end,’ Mr Unsworth said. ‘Clifton or Morgan.’
‘You said Clifton died…’
‘Yes, he… Oh dear, this all sounds far more disquieting than it would have done at the time. He was said to be unwell. Balance of his mind was upset. That was the wording at the inquest. He was found in his car. Carbon monoxide. Hose from the exhaust. Parked on some spare land, on the edge of the commercial sprawl next to Roman Road.’
‘You mean at the bottom of Aylestone Hill. Did he live anywhere near there?’
‘He lived a dozen miles away in Ledbury. Look, I… I’m not a superstitious man, Mrs Watkins, but after the business with Susan Lulham I confess I never wanted to sell that house again. But Grace Lulham… Susan didn’t leave a will, so the property went to her parents, and with Grace Lulham working just around the corner… I rather hoped they’d go somewhere else. But what can one do? Grace wanted it off their hands as soon as possible, at whatever price. The people who bought the New House - for a song, of course - bought to let, but nobody seemed to stay long.’
‘Do you happen to know if…?’
‘No more suicides, but no one stayed long. I think four or five of them, before the owners decided to get rid. Didn’t come to us this time. Put it in the hands of the chaps over the road.’
‘Erm… if they had come back to you, Mr Unsworth, would you… perhaps have felt obliged to tell Mr and Mrs Mahonie about the previous owners?’
He laughed.
‘Good lord, Mrs Watkins, I’m an estate agent!’ And then his face was solemn. ‘Yes, I probably would have. Been in this business over sixty years and … well, I have to say you do come across them. Unhappy houses. Houses that seem to attract ill-fortune. Sickness, marital discord, violent death… But it’s all nonsense, isn’t it? We put things together in our minds and make all kinds of horrible patterns. But that’s all it is… it’s in our minds. Don’t you think?’
He was smiling. He knew she couldn’t think that. Merrily felt almost physically sick. She hadn’t believed Zoe Mahonie, so her inquiries had been perfunctory. When she’d suggested to Sophie that she should be trying to trace other people who’d lived in the house, Sophie hadn’t thought it necessary or even likely that she’d find out anything. Merrily hadn’t pushed, had accepted it, maybe with relief.
And now Jonathan Mahonie lay dead in a drawer somewhere.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Mrs Watkins?’ Mr Unsworth said.
12. Bells
There was a public car park next to the Gaol Street police headquarters, a building she usually avoided entering. She called Bliss’s mobile and he came out. He liked to come out because of what artificial white light did to his knocked-about head.
‘The problem is, Merrily…’ Leaning on the Freelander, his voice raised against the traffic. ‘How can I put this? The Crown Prosecution Service has never exactly been big on metaphysics.’
‘Yeah, well, if the CPS wants to shrink the world… fuck them.’
She stiffened. Her voice had slipped into a break in the traffic, and an elderly woman had turned sharply around. Merrily’s hand instinctively covering the dog collar she
wasn’t wearing. Jesus, get a grip.
Bliss came away from the car.
‘So what specifically crashed into your world this time?’
She shook her head.
‘You wouldn’t thank me. Little bells I’m supposed to listen out for have started ringing. Bells I can’t ignore, but you probably should.’
The bells said Zoe might not be lying. Even if she thought she was, she might not be.
Bliss said, ’You want to give me the bottom line?’
‘The house has form. I mean before Suze. Nothing you’d be aware of. No blood, no crime. Just things I should’ve found out that might’ve sent me back to Zoe before it all escalated.’
‘I’ve seen the Facebook stuff,’ Bliss said.
‘Nothing to do with that.’
She was looking across the road at the redbrick magistrates’ court where Zoe Mahonie would presumably be making a short appearance, for commital to Crown court.
‘Only, in my experience,’ Bliss said, ‘exposure to social media makes daft people even dafter.’
‘It’s irrelevant. What I was wondering - did you find any books? In the house?’
‘Loads.’
‘I’m thinking non-Jonno books. Zoe gives the impression she avoids anything that might give her the creeps, but she apparently had a collection of paranormal DVDs and non-fiction books. None of which were on show when I went in.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘The neighbour.’
His eyes had gone still.
‘All right, yeah. POLSA found some items in a little storage loft under the eaves. DVDs of The Exorcist and The Amityville Horror. Also the collected Susan Lulham daytime TV hairdressing tips. Called Hair of the Bitch. Cute, but not paranormal.’
‘I didn’t even know that existed.’
‘Not to criticise your coiffeur, Merrily, but I’m guessing she’d be out of a vicar’s price range.’
‘Plus, I don’t do stripey bits. Anything else?’
‘Some books. Including a paperback called Deliverance. Orange cover.’
‘And black? Orange and black? Sub-title Psychic disturbances and occult involvement?’
