by Phil Rickman
‘She said she tripped.’ Susannah stood with her back to the window, her mouth half open, her control slipping away fast. ‘Tripped, coming down The Linney.’
‘But now, worst of all, the town’s conspiring with the Church to have Marion exorcized. Marion. And all she represents.’
You’ll lie like carrion… I’ll fly like Marion.
‘Look, that petition’s virtually a fake!’ Susannah shouted.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Most people here couldn’t care less about all this nonsense. Yes, there were petition forms in a few shops, but hardly anybody signed. It’s George, can’t you see that? My bloody soon-to-be father-in-law, God help me. George is behind it.’
‘Why would—?’
‘Ask him. You go and ask the old bastard.’
On the way back to the road — mid-afternoon, now — Merrily stopped to look back at The Weir House, a shambling timbered and stone farmhouse, born again. Trees on two sides were thickening into spring, and the grass was getting longer, and either she could hear the river or the hissing was in her head.
She walked across to the yew tree, where the paths converged, the hollow yew growing anew around its own exposed entrails, wondering if she’d dreamed last night that there was a door in it, like in a fairy tale — Bell stowing something in there, the mandolin in its case. Was this the same mandolin that had appeared on the cover of Nightshades? If so, what was its significance? She couldn’t play it, she probably couldn’t play any instrument. And anyway…
… There was no door, only a black and gaping hole, as if the tree had been shot with a cannon ball. Merrily paused, glanced over her shoulder and then stepped over the roots and into the tree, the ripe and resinous yew scent all around her.
The door was here. It was in the tree, loose, separated.
She edged it out. It was the real thing, beautifully shaped to fit the elliptical hole in the tree into which a solid frame had been moulded. The door looked like oak and had strong cast-iron hinges, one hanging off.
The key, presumably, was kept hidden somewhere in the tangle of tree. But there was no need for it, because the door had been brutally removed; you could see the marks left by the crowbar or whatever had been used to wrench it off.
Merrily went back into the hole, and kicked something with her trainer. Picked it up and brought it out: a prayer book. No need to look inside to know this was going to be the one that George Lackland said had been taken from St Laurence’s.
Someone had forced an entry, and Bell must have discovered it when she left.
She just, you know, screamed. Just once.
Merrily went back in, further this time, pushing up her sleeves. Seemed there was room to fit a couple of people in here at least. Her fingers found something regular and rigid and jutting out at about chest height: a ledge, a shelf. She felt around on top of it and drew back with a shudder — something slick and slippery like fat on bone.
Right. She brought out the Zippo.
The fatty item was a candle. Two of them on the wooden ledge; she lit one and watched the ancient organism becoming a brackish grotto around her, parts of its walls hanging like fragments of a rotting rood-screen, other segments moist and alive like hard flesh.
The candle flame was reflected in several small jars with stoppers, like the ones on the apothecary shelves in the kitchen, only clear. One had what looked like water in it, with some sediment at the bottom. Others contained sandy soil, crumbled dead leaves and what looked like chips of stone. Two bigger jars held coils of hair, yellow and white, and there was a small one with what seemed to be thin wood-shavings, but were probably nail clippings.
No mandolin case.
Just, you know, screamed…
‘What are you doing?’
Merrily came out of the tree. Susannah Pepper stood in the grass, her business suit vainly buttoned against the raw madness in the air.
‘You knew about this, Susannah?’
‘I thought you were going to look for her.’
‘Somebody broke into the tree. That would be why she screamed.’
‘It cost her a fortune. She had this guy who does wood sculptures up from Herefordshire. She told him she was going to make it into a summer house.’
‘Not exactly. Do you know what she kept in there?’
‘Private things. That was the point. We weren’t supposed to know.’
‘Good an excuse as any,’ Merrily said. ‘I was once married to a lawyer. The thing he used to say that I was most uneasy about was, “You can sleep better if you know when to stop asking questions.” There’s one thing missing from here.’
‘I don’t—’
‘The mandolin case she put in here last night?’
‘I don’t know anything about that. I think I’ve seen it, obviously…’
‘She play the mandolin often, Susannah? She play anything?’
‘She plays games,’ Susannah said.
Mumford
Waited on the spare land round by the old Greyhound Dog pub, and he was wearing the new clothes he’d bought at Millet’s — sort of clothes he’d never worn in his life before, jogger’s clothes. Felt real strange, too loose. Like he was naked.
Also had on Robbie’s baseball cap, the one that was always far too big on the boy, made him look dafter than he’d known. Mabbe there was another reason Mumford was wearing that cap, but he didn’t want to think about that.
Thing was, nobody was looking at him. Half his life, folks had seen him coming — looked like a copper the way a sheep looked like a sheep — and now, feeling more conspicuous than at any time since his first day in uniform thirty years ago, he was aware of folks passing by and nobody noticing him. And he realized the so-called plain clothes he’d been wearing for work all those years weren’t plain clothes at all these days, they were obvious copper’s clothes.
Stayed at the Green Dragon last night, biggest hotel in Hereford, therefore the most anonymous. Money no object. Emerging this morning in his jogging kit: dumpy, middle-aged, bastard, casual civilian.
And even Jason Mebus never noticed him.
After he’d come out the pub, round about half-one, Jason had been straight down the chip shop, the Fries Tuck, and he was walking up now, over Greyfriars Bridge, loping along, eating his chips and still making faster progress than the two lines of cars queuing up to get into town. Saturday-afternoon shoppers. It was all queues in Hereford now — more useless chain stores and still no bypass on the schedules. Be gridlocked soon, this city.
Mabbe Jason was meeting somebody in town — a girl or one of his scumbag mates. Mumford let him get close enough to the end of the bridge and then he started jogging.
Smiling at himself. This was what retired bastards did, to stay alive. All looking like Mumford in his tracksuit top and his pale blue trousers with elasticized bottoms, and his trainers.
Nobody else even walking this side of the bridge. He could see the traffic lights up ahead now, the vehicles nose-to-tail. Over the wall on his left was the River Wye where there used to be a restaurant. All this kind of recreation happening across the road now at Left Bank Village, so it was lucky Jason wasn’t heading towards town on that side. No chance there; far too crowded.
Thirty yards behind Jason now, and the sound of his trainers was muffled by the growling traffic. Had his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, looking down at the footpath, and just as well; with fifteen or twenty yards to go, Jason heard him and glanced over his shoulder and then back into his chips — just some sad ole jogger.
What Mumford did next was start smiling. Beaming all over his face. It didn’t come easy, never had, but he did it. Dumpy, middle-aged, genial, smiling bastard civilian.
Drawing level with Jason now, puffing a bit and slowing up as the traffic lights turned fortuitously to green, all the drivers’ attention fixed on getting through.
And Jason, stuffing a chip in his gob, never seen it coming.
Soon as the boy’s hand was
back in the chip bag, Mumford’s shoulder connected with the muscle near the top of his arm, the bag flying up in the air.
‘Oh, sorry, mate! Sorry!’
‘You fuckin’ clumsy—’
‘Let me help you, boy,’ Mumford said and, with his back to the traffic, smacked Jason in the mouth, not too hard but hard enough.
The boy was still choking on the chip while Mumford was propelling him down the street to the left and across the car park, back towards the underside of the bridge. Figuring that under the bridge was best. Be nobody about on this side. Nice bit of dereliction, fair bit of cover.
Plenty of time, plenty of river. And he had the bastard who, one way or another, had murdered Robbie Walsh.
40
Heavier Than You Know
‘Ledwardine vicarage,’ Lol said.
‘Is the vicar there?’ Woman’s voice, local accent.
Lol said the vicar was out and asked if he could take a message.
He was unhappy. He’d answered two calls so far from parishioners, both of whom seemed to have recognized his voice, neither of whom had wanted to discuss the nature of their business with him. The tones suggesting that they thought the vicar was not out at all but was perhaps upstairs, sobbing into her pillow, aching from dozens of bruises in places where they wouldn’t show.
‘When will she be back? I mean, can you contact her? Has she got a mobile?’
‘No, she hasn’t. Not at the moment. I can’t contact her, I’m afraid.’
Lol heard a door opening behind him. Jane came into the scullery, looking flushed, followed by Eirion.
‘Damn,’ the woman said. ‘Look, if she comes in, can you get her to ring me. Like, just me, OK? Anybody else answers, don’t talk to them. Can you tell her that? My name’s Karen Dowell. Tell her I’m Andy Mumford’s… something or other, relation. She’ll know.’
‘Oh. You’re calling from police headquarters.’
Pause. ‘Who are you, exactly?’ Karen Dowell said.
‘My name’s Lol Robinson. I’m a… friend.’
Jane was making handle-turning motions at him, to wind this up. He tucked the phone between his shoulder and his cheek and raised both hands at her.
‘OK,’ Karen Dowell said, ‘I know who you are. Mr Robinson, have you heard from Andy?’
‘No, but I’ve had Bliss here.’
‘I know that. He said he was going to talk to the vicar. They all seem to trust the vicar.’
‘He talked to me instead.’
‘Where exactly is Mrs Watkins?’
‘She’s in Ludlow.’
‘Damn,’ Karen said. ‘Listen, can I really trust—’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘Not a word to Bliss, not to anybody, apart from the vicar and Andy, if he calls.’
‘I understand,’ Lol said.
‘Don’t even make notes, you only need the sense of this.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ve been doing PNC checks for Andy — police computer, yeah?’
‘Right.’
‘And following stuff up. I’m good with computers, it’s my thing. Checked out a number of people connected with the Plascarreg, which you don’t need to know about. The one you do need to know about is Jonathan Swift.’
‘The writer?’
‘It’s a guy in Ludlow who Andy asked me to check a few days ago. He calls himself something else there, but this is the name in which his car’s registered. He hasn’t got a record, but I’m always suspicious when there’s a name change involved, so I made a few calls. We had a previous address for him in Cheshire, near Stockport, so I belled a bloke I was at the police college with, works at Greater Manchester Police. Keeping it off the record. And he put me onto another guy, OK? I’m stressing again that this is unofficial, Mr Robinson, and only for (a) Andy, (b) the vicar, right? My neck’s gonner be on the block here.’
‘Is this a man called Jonathan Scole?’
‘That’s correct. His real name’s Swift, and the crux of it is his parents were shot dead. Both of them. They… you there, Mr Robinson?’
‘Yes.’
‘You on your own?’
Lol caught Jane’s eye, pointed at the door. ‘Yes.’
‘All right: Swift’s parents ran a transport caff — greasy spoon, yeah? They were shot as they were leaving at closing time, just before midnight. Takings stolen. I remember this one, actually, although no reason you would. Major police hunt, but nobody ever caught. Very efficient. Head shots with a handgun. Well, no shortage of them in the Manchester area these days.’
‘Recently?’ Lol nodded as Jane shrugged and slipped out, with Eirion.
‘Last year. I’ve got the date somewhere, but that don’t matter. Bit of a puzzler, though, because the takings came to just over three hundred. Peanuts, in other words. Two people shot dead at close range, for three hundred? Even in Manchester, you don’t get that. It was on Crimewatch and they got zilch from the public. It was all very carefully planned, and kids after money for drugs aren’t that careful, take my word.’
‘And so… what’s the significance?’
‘Contract killing,’ Karen said. ‘That’s the whisper. That’s the unspoken. Not a shred of evidence, mind.’
‘The parents were, like, underworld figures?’
‘Good God, no, they were respectable people who worked day and night and didn’t even have any points on their driving licences. Contract killing en’t what it used to be, Mr Robinson. Too many guns about now, and too many evil little buggers who’ll do it for a thousand or less.’
‘So this guy in Ludlow changed his name… because his parents were murdered?’
‘He changed his name, originally, on police advice, because people started pointing the finger. Collected a lot of money, see — sale of a house, sale of a café to a national chain looking for a site. Now, he was personally in the clear — away on a business-studies course. Full alibi. But, as I say, neighbours and friends of Mr and Mrs Swift were whispering about terrible domestic rows. Had a temper on him, see. Not a happy family.’
‘Look,’ Lol said, feeling his chest going tight, ‘can you spell this out? What are we worrying about, in particular? I don’t know this guy, but I think Merrily does.’
‘Well, Mr Robinson, I don’t know, do I? I’m just passing on what I’ve discovered. It might be something or nothing. But I’d feel real bad if I hadn’t passed it on and then something happened. Which is why I’m telling you now rather than wait till Andy shows up. And that’s another problem, ennit?’
‘If I’m allowed to write your number down,’ Lol said, ‘I’ll call you back if I hear from Andy.’
‘That would be very good of you, long as you remember—’
‘Don’t talk to anyone else, if you’re not there.’
‘That’s exactly right,’ Karen said.
Jane didn’t even ask who he’d been talking to. She pressed him into a chair in the kitchen, knelt down facing him, gripping the chair arms.
‘Lol, listen… just listen, and then answer the questions. When Jack Fine from Q magazine came, what exactly—?’
‘Jane, we need to swap over.’ Lol pushed himself up, patting his jeans to make sure he had his car keys. ‘You need to stay here, and I have to go over to Ludlow.’
‘Huh? Mum is OK, isn’t she?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine. Just some things I need to tell her.’
‘What things?’
Jane’s eyes were concentrated and glittering with so much awareness it was scary. Age of transition: old enough to drive, almost old enough to vote for a new government and get drunk in pubs with the state’s blessing. Old enough to have no more adult so-called secrets being whispered behind your back.
But telling her about her mother and a man who the police didn’t like because his parents had been shot dead… and about the kids on the Plascarreg who’d shown Robbie Walsh what it was like to be hanged… how could any of this really help?
‘You’re fee
ling sidelined, aren’t you? Out of it,’ Jane said. ‘She never thinks about that.’
‘She doesn’t have time.’
‘You make too many excuses for her. Sometimes she needs to put her own relationship first. Yeah, OK, do it. You go, we’ll stay. But first, we need to ask you some things.’
‘It’s called The Weir House, right, and it’s down below the castle, near the river?’
‘She might not even be there now. Lol—’
‘It’s a small town, I’ll find her.’
‘Lol, you can spare, like, ten… OK, five… five minutes? You do want to know who set you up, don’t you? The anonymous notes?’
‘It was a little kid. I’ve just—’
‘It was a big kid, actually.’
‘Lol,’ Eirion said, ‘she’s right, for once. This is heavier than you know. For starters, Jack Fine’s not from Q magazine, he’s this bastard I go to school with, and he was here purely to get information out of you. I don’t want to hold you up or anything, but basically Jane recognized him and this morning we went to his dad’s house to face him up.’
‘His dad publishes magazines,’ Jane said. ‘He used to be a national-paper journalist, and now he publishes all kinds of trade and, like, professional magazines and junk like that. He also tips off the papers on stories, and the son, J.D. Fyneham — Jack Fine — his personal weekend job is on much the same lines. He’s got all this desktop publishing kit, and he does this church-magazine scam, and he’s open for commissions and it seems to me he’s not fussy where they come from.’
‘We got so far with him,’ Eirion said, ‘and then it became clear there were people he was more intimidated by than, like, Jane.’
‘What, you mean he edits the Yardies’ international newsletter?’ Lol stood up. ‘Look, guys, I’m sure this is significant stuff I’ll really want to know about… tonight?’
‘Just tell us what questions Fyneham asked you,’ Eirion said. ‘And then you can go, and we’ll stop here by the phone.’
‘Well, he… he did try to find out about Merrily and me. I suspect he’d heard something, but I headed him off. I said I wasn’t in any particular relationship at present.’
