Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Who indeed? Sorry, let it run, Karen.’

  New voice, a woman, not local.

  ‘This is not political, but it’s certainly a matter of…’

  Now you saw her. Fortyish, short red hair, tailored suit.

  ‘… pride and tradition. This county, like every county in Britain, has its roots in agriculture, but in Herefordshire the roots are still close to the surface, not yet buried under tons of concrete.’

  The caption said:

  Rachel Wiseman-France.

  Coordinator, Countryside Defiance.

  Bliss made a note of it as the woman said: ‘With the hunting ban and four-by-fours road-taxed to the hilt, people who live and work in the countryside already felt they were being systematically penalized. Now they not only fear for their livelihoods, but their very lives.’

  The reporter’s voice came back: ‘The brother of murdered farmer Mansel Bull is also talking of a climate of fear in the Welsh Border hills and is accusing West Mercia Police of turning a blind eye to rural crime.’

  Sollers Bull was standing outside his restaurant between two flags, a Welsh dragon and a cross of St George.

  ‘My brother’s death left us shattered. Not only the family, but the whole county. I’ve had dozens of phone calls, letters, emails from farmers and country dwellers, and most of them are saying the same thing.’

  Sollers wore a dark suit, black tie. Spoke quietly, even hesitantly, letting a local accent leak through and stumbling over the odd word. No hint of the aggression he’d displayed to Bliss. No ear stud today.

  ‘Only days before he was killed, my brother reported seeing strangers on our land, behaving in a suspicious manner. So he phoned the police. Who did not come out to investigate. ’

  Sollers paused. No mention of migrants this time, Bliss noticed. He knew that any hint of racism and the BBC would never speak to him again.

  ‘… and even after the murder, I was appalled to be told by a senior officer that we could not have expected any more attention than we got.’

  Annie Howe and Terry Stagg both glancing at Bliss. DCs Vaynor and Toft exchanging smiles, maybe even smirks. Bliss scowled.

  ‘What was I supposed to say? Yeh, I’m really sorry, we should’ve sent an ARU?’

  Rachel Wiseman-France was back.

  ‘The point is that some police divisions have special squads for dealing with gun and knife crime and offences in urban ethnic communities. But rural crimes, time after time, go undetected, because too many police have absolutely no knowledge of life outside the cities.’

  Karen Dowell looked at Bliss, raising a despondent eyebrow, as shots appeared of uniformed police and SOCOs in Durex suits standing by a van at the entrance to Mansel Bull’s farm. The camera lingering for just an instant too bloody long on a full-length shot of Bliss pointing at something and smiling. God, he hadn’t noticed that first time round. Smiling at a murder scene. Bliss kept his eyes on the TV, knowing that every bastard in the CID room would be covertly observing his reactions.

  What he saw next, as the picture cut back to the people in the restaurant, made him want to kick the screen in.

  He turned away, nails digging into his palms, as Rachel Wiseman-France said, ‘The last thing we want is to be accused of taking the law into our own hands. But are we really going to stand by and see our precious countryside turned into killing fields?’

  At a signal from Annie Howe, Karen cut the sound on the male presenter reading out a précis of the press statement put out by Elly Clatter about how West Mercia were fully committed to the policing of rural areas and nobody would rest until the killer of Mansel Bull was caught. Annie moved in front of the screen.

  ‘OK, you all know what we’ve said to the media. After what we’ve just seen, we all know it’s not going to be good enough, long-term. I have a meeting with the Chief Constable tomorrow, and I’d like to be able to tell him we’re moving towards a quick result on this. But… clearly we’re not.’

  ‘Killing fields?’ Bliss snarled. ‘Frigging killing fields? Who is that woman? Anybody know anything about this Countryside Defiance?’

  Bliss looked at Karen Dowell, who shrugged.

  ‘Ask around, shall I, boss?’

  ‘There’s a new pressure-group formed every other week,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Probably latching onto this for their own political reasons, with the telegenic Mr Bull as a useful figure-head. However… they do seem to have the support of certain influential people in the county, which is obviously not going to make things any easier for us.’

  Bliss looked at Annie, in her black Crown Court suit and her white silk shirt. His lover, now, unbelievably.

  But his friend?

  Later, in his office, Bliss showed Annie the letter posted to The Police, Hereford. ‘Gwyn Adamson’s inclined to think it’s a crank thing. I’m not sure.’

  To the Detective investigating the Murder of Farmer Bull.

  I cannot tell you who I am for personal reasons. While my girlfriend and I were parking at the entrance to a field last Friday night, we both saw a man covered with blood. He was coming towards us as I pulled in and when he saw us he turned and ran. I had the headlights on full and we saw that there was blood all over him. I am sorry that I cannot reveal my identity but I swear this is the truth.

  I did not think to look at the exact time but it was about 8.00pm. This is all I can tell you. I hope it helps you catch him. I am unable to give you a better description of him because of all the blood.

  ‘This has been processed, presumably?’ Annie said.

  ‘It’s a copy.’

  ‘Where was it posted?’

  ‘In town.’

  ‘Could be on CCTV, then. If we can tie it down to a time margin, could be a simple process of elimination.’

  ‘Already being done,’ Bliss said. ‘What strikes me is the way he calls Mansel Farmer Bull. Heard that a few times the last couple of days. Some local people called him Farmer Bull in a humorous kind of way because he looked so much like an old-fashioned gentleman farmer – tweeds, waistcoat, cloth cap.’

  ‘That been in the papers?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware.’

  ‘So this person’s probably a local. Fairly intelligent, no spelling mistakes or dodgy grammar. We could be looking at a neigh-bour. In a car. With a girlfriend. So if he’s married… What’ve you done about it so far?’

  ‘Extended the search area. Nasty night, so there’ll be tracks. Also, if this bloke they saw was well splattered with Mansel’s blood, he’s likely to’ve sprinkled some of it around.’

  ‘We need to find whoever sent this,’ Annie said. ‘This guy thinks he’s told us all he knows, but half an hour’s questioning we could get twice as much. Let’s put out an appeal. Person who sent a letter posted in Hereford. No details.’

  ‘OK, will do. Interesting they saw only one man. Could be significant?’

  ‘Unless they split up, took off in different directions.’

  ‘There’s also a report come in of a man at Leominster being taken away in a four-by-four with a bag over his head. But that was two nights earlier. Maybe a joke.’

  ‘Yeah, well, from now on, we ignore nothing that happens in the sticks,’ Annie Howe said.

  ‘Yeh. Um…’ Might as well tell her. ‘Don’t think you’ve ever seen Kirsty, have you?’

  ‘Apart from in the wedding picture that used to be on your sideboard.’

  ‘She looked different then. Longer hair. And it’s dyed now. Dark red.’

  Annie looked at him, a forefinger extended along one pale cheek.

  ‘Dark red hair? Black coat?’

  ‘You noticed her, then.’

  ‘On the box? Oh God, Francis.’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘Who was the man, with her?’

  ‘Her old man, Chris Symonds. Interesting the way they were sitting at the table right underneath the Countryside Defiance banner.’

  ‘So they knew they’d be on TV, and you’d see it.’
Annie folded the photocopy of the letter and stood up, allowing her hand to brush briefly against Bliss’s. ‘Come over later, if you can.’

  14

  Not Going

  BORDERLIFE: THAT WAS when the knife really went in.

  A quarterly glossy, full of ads for luxury stuff that few local people would buy even if they could afford it. But then, Borderlife wasn’t aimed at local people. Getting off the school bus, Jane had seen the spring issue on the rack at the Eight Till Late. Hadn’t wanted to buy it, obviously, but the know-your-enemy instinct had kicked in with the picture of Ward Savitch on the front, sitting on a vintage Fergy tractor with The Court in the background, all misty, and the blurb Just Call Me A Reformed Townie.

  OK, Jane had never actually met Savitch. Didn’t really want to, either, in case he turned out to have, you know, some level of basic charm or a prosthetic leg. But she was building up a file of news cuttings, background for the exposé in a proper pub lication.

  Borderlife had four pages, including about six pictures of the countryside looking lush, the enemy looking smug.

  THE SAVITCH EFFECT

  Lorna Mantle meets the man

  at the heart of the New Cotswolds

  Jane had the magazine open on the floor by her bed and was lying across the width of the duvet, tensing up already.

  How many lives must have been changed for ever by a quick flip through the property pages in a dentist’s waiting room. ‘Yes, I the secrets of pain owe all this to a broken tooth,’ Ward Savitch laughs, showing me around an estate that now extends to over 300 acres… and growing.

  The advertisement for The Court at Ledwardine wasn’t the biggest on the page, but there was something about it that told the jaded City broker: This is the one.

  ‘I think it was the fact that I’d simply never heard of the place,’ he says. ‘I’d inspected properties all over Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire and Berkshire with an increasing sense of seen-it-all-before. But Herefordshire was a revelation.’

  They all said that. Jane wrinkling her nose in distaste. What they meant was that Herefordshire was still up for grabs, whereas the Cotswolds had been firmly grabbed, no bargains left.

  The term ‘New Cotswolds’ as applied to the pre-recession rush to buy property in Herefordshire is not always used approvingly, but Ward Savitch sees it as a challenge. ‘This county has a wealth of customs and traditions in danger of being lost for ever. I want to see growth of a kind which supports the old traditions and helps develop a society that will preserve them in a sympathetic and lasting way.’

  Made you want to vomit.

  After an extensive restoration of the former farmhouse and its grounds and outbuildings, Mr Savitch began breeding pheasants and organizing shooting weekends. Then, as he acquired more land, new luxury chalets were concealed in the dark woods, giving upmarket holidaymakers a taste of the wilds.

  The action-holiday market was also catered for, with paintballing events, canoeing on the river, quad bikes and rough shooting. Many of the guests enjoyed themselves so much that they didn’t want to leave and went on to buy their own homes in the area, finding that it was possible to live on the Welsh Border without giving up their highpowered business ventures.

  ‘I realized there was a new energy here,’ says Mr Savitch, ‘and became more excited than I’d ever been in my life. I saw that, with the decline of agriculture, the countryside was literally being left to rot – by the damned townies. Well, you can call me a reformed townie – I’ve seen the light. In the Internet era we can do anything here that can be done in a city – and better.’

  To prove this to City power-brokers, Mr Savitch has been organ-ising hugely popular ‘freshen-up’ weekends aimed at London-based professionals damaged by the recession and and desperate to make a new start.

  Cornel and his mates? They were damaged all right, but not in ways they’d accept.

  Ward Savitch certainly exudes an infectious vitality as he drives me in a bumpy old Land Rover across fields and along forestry tracks, where every chalet – and chalet is a poor term for these luxurious holiday homes – comes with over half an acre of wooded land, and full Wi-Fi broadband. They all have solar panels and Ward has plans for a small wind farm on the edge of his estate.

  ‘Oh, I’m as green as the next man,’ he says. ‘But I’m not into gimmicks and all that old hippie “good life” nonsense. The countryside isn’t a place for running away to. It’s a place to progress to. Surveys show that the largest proportion of incomers to Herefordshire in the past year have been from London.

  ‘Many are people with money, eager to invest it somewhere they can see it having an effect,’ says Mr Savitch. ‘I’ve lost nearly two stone since moving here and sleep better than I’ve ever done. Coming to the Border – I expect that to add at least fifteen years to my useful life.’

  Useful life?

  Solar panels and windmills for phoney green cred? Who was this Lorna Mantle? Had Savitch opened a bottle of vintage champagne afterwards and shagged her in the barn? Jane wasn’t laughing, because it got worse.

  ***

  The secrets of pain The Savitch effect is already visible in the economic health of the county, in the demand for country-sports equipment and outward-bound accessories.

  ‘Mr Savitch has done great things for my business,’ says Kenny Mostyn, proprietor of camping and country sports suppliers Hardkit, who provides instructors at The Court. ‘I won’t deny we were in trouble before he came – the bank was pulling the plug – but we now have four flourishing retail outlets either side of the Welsh Border.’

  ‘Ward has been good news for us,’ says Lyndon Pierce, who represents Ledwardine on the Herefordshire Council. ‘He’s preserved the village economy in difficult times, and even attracted new business ventures. And this is just the start. A broad economic base means we should be able to go ahead with a major expansion programme that might otherwise have been in danger.’

  At the bottom of the piece it said:

  SEE FOR YOURSELF what Ward Savitch has achieved when The Court at Ledwardine is open to visitors over the Easter holiday period, culminating in a Family Fun Day on Bank Holiday Monday.

  He had it all worked out. Winning the battle for hearts and minds. It was sick.

  Jane slid the magazine under the bed, rolled onto her back, and a rogue sob came up like a hiccup. She lay looking up at where, when they’d first moved here and she’d claimed the attic as her apartment, she’d painted the white plastered spaces between the timbers in primary colours. The Mondrian Walls. The big statement. This is me, this is my space.

  Just a kid, then. Not yet getting it that Ledwardine was all about bones of oak and creamy white skin and didn’t need chemical colours.

  Or anybody like Ward Savitch. Ever.

  Now there were sheets of white card taped between the timbers. She’d spent every evening for most of a week putting this together, using blow-ups of a large-scale OS map. Here was the village with the orchard marked out, as it had been centuries ago: a great circle around a much smaller community. The orchard still enclosing much of a Bronze Age henge. Roots of old apple trees wrapped around buried stones. It had to be.

  She sat up, took the mobile from the bedside table and rang Neil Cooper, of the county archaeology department, at home. He answered on about the twelfth ring.

  ‘OK, look,’ Jane said, ‘I’m really sorry to be ringing you at night again, and I know your wife thinks we’ve got a thing going, but I need—’

  ‘No, she doesn’t, Jane,’ Neil Cooper said. ‘She’s seen you. She knows I’m far too much of a slippers-and-cocoa kind of guy for someone like you. In fact, Russell Brand would probably be too—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, very amusing.’

  Jane squirmed to the edge of the bed where she’d lost her virginity to Eirion Lewis. He was at university now, in Cardiff, came over most weekends, bless him, didn’t want to lose her. Russell Brand?

  ‘We’re moving as fast we can, Jane,’ Coops
said, ‘but like I keep telling you, it’s not the only dig in the queue.’

  Nearly all archaeology these days was rescue archaeology. They only ever got to look at places about to be buried for ever under a housing estate. What worried her was that if the council sanctioned plans for a superstore and upmarket housing – and Savitch had to be in on that somewhere – the henge would stay buried, like for good?

  ‘So what you’re saying is…’

  ‘It’s now looking doubtful this summer.’

  ‘So, like, if I wind up at uni in September, I miss everything.’

  ‘Jane—’

  ‘Sorry, I expect you’ve got things to do. I’ll go.’

  ‘I will keep you informed. I realize how much this means to you.’

  Jane lay down with her head hanging over the side of the bed. Couldn’t seem to sleep these nights.

  It was OK till you turned eighteen. OK to sound off about things you hated, knowing there was nothing you could really do about any of it. All those years of thinking how great it’d be when you were officially adult and nobody could restrict you any more. When, in fact, not being able to do anything was actually a kind of freedom. If you stood up now and accused your local councillor of being bent – which he was – he’d have you in court. The village and the henge… she’d tried to discuss it with some of the guys at school, and they didn’t get it. Didn’t remotely get it. None of them could wait to get the hell out of the places they’d grown up in, dreaming of London and Paris and New York and LA.

  Maybe it was a pagan thing, that sense of place. That sense of attachment. Although even Mum was picking up on it now.

  Jane had Googled Julian of Norwich last night and discovered a woman who, in an age when God was generally feared, had found the old guy polite, compassionate and…