Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain

by Phil Rickman

‘Seems Colin Jones is coming into police headquarters in about an hour. Seems that after the events of last night, the police thought it might be a good idea to visit his premises. Jones said he wouldn’t be there today but, as he’d be in Hereford, he’d be happy to call in at Gaol Street. He says he won’t be pressing charges against the man who broke into his premises.’

  ‘Good to know,’ Merrily said, guarded.

  ‘Lockley thinks it would be a good idea to make the most of Jones’s presence. In view of what you told me, they’d like you to be there when they talk to him. As a consultant.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘William himself and the Senior Investigating Officer. Howe.’

  ‘Annie Howe asked for me? I don’t think so, James.’ She watched Alison leaning the barrow up against the house wall, then taking off her leather gloves. ‘I expect I’m the one who’ll look stupid if none of this stands up to scrutiny.’

  ‘That bother you?’

  ‘If it bothered me, I’d be in a different job.’

  She called in at the vicarage to put out dried food for Ethel and check the answering machine. For once, no messages. On the way out, she noticed a brown Jiffy bag propped up against the wall and took it back inside.

  The bag contained a large-format, lavishly illustrated hard-back book.

  RISKING ALL

  The SAS Experience

  Another kill-and-tell Regiment memoir. By Trooper Z. There was a sheet of Black Swan headed notepaper, marking a page, Barry’s scrawl across it: More from the Public Sector.

  There were just pictures on the marked pages, in colour. One with a pencilled cross against it showed a bunch of smiling guys in T-shirts holding up white mugs. The caption said:

  Teatime in Colombia for (L to R) Greg, Syd, Jocko and Nasal.

  Various guns were laid out on the parched grass in front of them. Syd was only vaguely recognisable; his teddy bear’s eyes were covered, like all their eyes, with a black rectangle. All dead. All dead now.

  Except for Byron, of whom there was no sign.

  61

  Passed Away

  CARLY SAID, ‘VICTORIA… I reckon she thought Joss didn’t like her. Well, nobody likes her that much, to be honest. And like most of them she don’t care, but Joss was her little sister, you know?’

  Little sister. Lemon hair and a frozen scowl. But you forgot; underneath, they were both little girls, citrus-haired Joss and Carly, with her black nails. Little girls who got the life beaten out of two women they didn’t know.

  Carly said, ‘Victoria’s, like, I’ll find out who they are and we’ll deal with them?’

  Bliss nodded in an understanding kind of way, while wondering how he could make her cry.

  ‘She explain exactly what she planned to do to them?’

  ‘Just deal with them. We never thought. It’s not like she’s, you know, gone that far before, is it?’

  ‘As far as we know, Carly. As far as we know. Tell me what you saw.’

  ‘Didn’t see nothing. I wasn’t looking. I mean, it was cool at first, but then you thought, like, maybe it’s not…’

  ‘Not that cool, eh?’ Bliss said. ‘Killing people.’

  Carly turned away. Bliss eyed her with dispassion.

  ‘Let’s go back. I’m talking about after Joss phoned Victoria to say the sisters had left the Monk’s Head and were heading up towards the Cathedral. What happened then? What did Victoria do?’

  ‘She’s, like, in the middle of the street? The narrow street with the cobbles?’

  ‘Church Street.’

  Amazing how kids could be born and grow up in this city and didn’t know the names of its streets.

  ‘And she, like, she’s got her arms folded – like this? And she’s not moving. Like, if anybody tries to come past, they’re gonner get… you know? And when these two seen her just standing there—’

  ‘The Marinescu sisters?’

  ‘Yeah. They, like cut off into this other street?’

  ‘East Street.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And did you follow them?’

  ‘We started to, but Vic walks over then, and she’s with this guy?’

  ‘Guy you knew?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Joss know him?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘You know who he is now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll be asking you to describe him in a minute, and it better not be like the description you gave of the non-existent fellers who followed the Marinescus out. But let’s not break the flow.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Was there anybody else in East Street?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Vic… she puts on these gloves.’

  ‘Kind of gloves? Black suede? Woollen mittens?’

  ‘Rubber gloves. Long. That, like, unroll up your arm?’

  ‘And the guy? He put on gloves too?’

  ‘I din’t see, to be honest.’

  Bliss glanced at Mr Ryan Nye, who was looking down into his hands. Not yet five o’clock, but the light seemed to be fading early today, as if something had sent the year into reverse. Up at the end of the table, Karen was watching the tape machine as if it was a lie detector.

  Bliss said, ‘Go on, Carly.’

  ‘Vic catches up with the… you know, the women, and she’s talking to them? We couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then, it’s like one of them… she just trips? Like, stumbles over? And the bloke’s come out of, like, nowhere, and he catches her.’

  ‘What was Victoria doing?’

  ‘Laughing. Just starts laughing real loud, and going like oops, kind of thing. Like the woman was a bit pissed and she’d slipped. And then… they all, like, vanished. That’s all we seen.’

  ‘Vanished where?’

  ‘Into this… where people park?’

  ‘And what did you and Joss do then?’

  Carly looked at Mr Nye. Mr Nye didn’t even look up.

  ‘I think, Inspector,’ he said, ‘that you can understand how intimidating my client must have found Victoria Buckland. Even though she had no reason to believe that Ms Buckland’s intentions extended beyond, shall we say, putting the fear of God into the Marinescu sisters.’

  ‘Apart from the gloves,’ Bliss said.

  Mr Nye said nothing.

  ‘Carly,’ Bliss said, ‘didn’t you or Joss feel tempted to have a little peep at what – or who – was going down on the car park?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t wanner talk about this no more.’

  ‘Where were you, exactly?’

  ‘Just round the side of the building?’

  ‘And you saw nothing. But you surely heard—’

  ‘They weren’t even from here!’ Now Carly was jerking up and back like somebody had set light to her clothes. ‘They were bad bitches! They robbed Joss’s gran! The bitches robbed her handbag with all her personal stuff in it and she was so upset she died!’

  ‘Is that why you took their handbags, Carly?’

  ‘I never took nothing!’

  ‘With the pictures of their parents, and the little dog?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Um, Carly,’ Mr Nye said. ‘You remember what we talked about.’

  ‘I wish I was dead. I wish I was fucking dead!’

  Bliss shook his head, settling back in his chair, watching stupid little Carly Horne come slowly to pieces for the tape.

  It was one of those country garages that didn’t sell petrol and didn’t have a shop, looked like a semi-derelict chapel of rest. A bloke in brown overalls seemed to recognize Cornel’s Porsche, came shambling round to his wound-down window.

  ‘Wannit again, chief?’

  ‘Same one as before?’

  The bloke nodded. Cornel got out his wallet, turned to Jane.

  ‘This is where we leave the car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because
it just is.’

  Cornel drove the Porsche round to the back of the garage where an old grey van was parked. When he got out, the garage guy handed him a ring of keys with a wooden tag on the end. Cornel gave him a small fold of notes, then leaned into the Porsche.

  ‘For you, girlie, the luxury transport is history.’

  The sun had gone in. Jane slid out of the Porsche, zipping up her jacket, beginning not to like this again. It had taken them a long time to get here, as if Cornel had been stalling. They’d walked around Leominster and he’d kept wanting to buy her things, like she was his girlfriend now, and she’d kept refusing, while feeling a bit sorry for him. And then they’d gone into a pub, where she’d had one cider and he’d swallowed two pints of bitter, which would probably put him over the limit. He didn’t appear to care.

  Now he was around the back of the Porsche, opening up the boot, pulling out a leather bag and a bulked-out rucksack, lugging them back to the van.

  ‘Get in.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Just get in, eh, Jane? This is necessary.’

  It was dark inside the van, which smelled of oil and rust. Cornel clanged the clutch pulling out into the lane. Jane fastened her seat belt. The strap was frayed and flaked with mud.

  ‘That guy seemed to know you.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve hired this heap a couple of times before.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because a Porsche can be a bit obvious?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Jane supposed it would, at a cockfight.

  ‘So we’re going there now?’

  ‘Wait till dark.’

  ‘But…’ Oh God. ‘You mean we’re actually going to a…?’

  ‘That bother you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Thought you wanted evidence.’

  ‘Erm…’

  OK, nailing Savitch would be the best thing she’d ever done in her life. And there might be a few other people there she could identify, maybe even sneak some pictures of them on the mobile, shot from the hip. But what if anybody recognized her? No secret in Ledwardine where she stood on these issues.

  Jane watched Cornel wrestling with the steering. He was driving without a seat belt. She’d felt sorry for him a couple of times and, OK, she was grateful that he was actually going to help her, but that didn’t mean she could actually like him. There were two sides to him: the ruthless and the kind of weak. And he’d done things, obviously. He’d shot things without a thought, and he’d been to a cockfight and wanted to eat a cock because he’d lost money on it.

  ‘How do you get on these courses, anyway?’

  ‘Sponsored by your firm. I was the first from my bank, as it happened. Heard about it on the grapevine.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘How some other guys were so impressed that they kept coming back for more. You could see the effects, somehow. In their attitude. Well, not only that. Some guys, it was almost awesome, the difference.’

  ‘So you got to come back?’

  The van went rattling onto the main road, its suspension creaking. When Jane looked at Cornel to see why he wasn’t answering his face seemed to have darkened.

  ‘Lot of envy in my business, Jane. People whisper lies, and get believed. People who didn’t want you going all the way.’

  ‘All the way?’

  ‘Because you just might go further than them, and that would never do because they went to Eton and you struggled through the system. And so the knife goes in.’

  ‘Dead,’ Carly said. ‘He’s, like, “She’s dead.”’

  ‘This is the man?’ Bliss leaned across the table. ‘The man with Victoria?’

  ‘And then he’s, like, “All I done was push her.” And then Victoria, she’s a bit annoyed, she goes, “Oh, she fell on a kerb.”’

  ‘Kerb?’

  ‘Kerbstone. That’s what she said. She says, “Oh, she must’ve got a head like a…”’ Carly jerked back, her raven’s wing of hair flying up. ‘I can’t do this…’

  Bliss said, ‘Head like a…?’

  ‘…eggshell.’ Carly twisted away. ‘And then she goes, “You’re f—” Can’t we do it later? Tomorrow? I might be able to remember better. I’m all—’

  ‘Carly,’ Bliss said. ‘I want you to tell me precisely what Victoria said. The words exactly as you remember them.’

  ‘She says, “You’re fucking right. She’s passed away.”’

  Something penetrated Bliss’s spine. He leaned across the table.

  ‘She used those actual words? “Passed away?”’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And what did the other one say? The other sister?’

  ‘I don’t reckon she understood what they was on about. Then there was like a bit of a… like a scuffle? And then, like, Victoria…’ Carly grabbed Mr Nye’s arm. ‘I can’t say this stuff. Tell him I can’t do this. Tell him.’

  ‘You’ll note my client’s level of distress, Inspector. This was quite evidently something so abhorrent to her that she could hardly believe it was happening.’

  ‘Point taken, Mr Nye. For the moment. Carly, what did Victoria say next?’

  ‘I won’t have to see her again, will I?’

  ‘I’m guessing not for many years, if at all,’ Bliss said softly. ‘If you tell us the truth.’

  ‘I can’t go to prison.’ Carly’s cheeks all zebra-striped with damp mascara. ‘You gotter promise me I won’t go to no prison.’

  ‘Out of my hands, Carly. I mean, you know, sometimes I get listened to. But you’d have to get me on your side first, and you’ve gorra long way to go before—’

  ‘Where’s my mum? Did you call my mum?’

  ‘Carly, you refused to have your mum in with you.’

  ‘Well, now I want her.’

  Bliss thought about his own kids, how they might turn out after exposure to the influence of a rich, cocky farmer with hunting skills. Carly must’ve seen the darkening of his face. She seemed to throb.

  ‘Gonner be sick.’

  Bliss didn’t move.

  ‘What did Victoria say, after she noticed the lady had passed away? Come on, Carly.’

  Carly sniffed hard, eyes filling up.

  ‘What did Victoria say, Carly?’

  Carly leaned back in her chair, face shining with teary snot.

  ‘“That’s…” She said, “that’s a bugger.” Then she said, “We’re… gonner have to do the other one now.”’

  Bliss watched Karen Dowell’s lips forming a distinct o.

  ‘I think this might be a good time to take a break, Inspector,’ Mr Nye said.

  62

  Blood Sugar

  SHOULD HAVE SEEN this coming, from the first tap of James Bull-Davies’s umbrella on the vicarage door. In this job, looking stupid was part of the package.

  It was a rectangular room with pale yellow walls and a row of windows overlooking the east city. William Lockley accepted the padded chair at the top of the conference table. He wore a crumpled grey suit and a grey woollen tie, and his moustache screened his lips. An air of wariness. If Lockley looked less than comfortable, maybe that was something to do with women. Things you could discuss with them, things you couldn’t.

  And then there was Annie Howe, putting down her briefcase, taking the chair opposite Merrily, who was trying not to stare.

  No rimless glasses, longer hair, hoop earrings. A soft, stripy woollen sweater. Soft? Stripy? You’d almost think there was a man in the background.

  ‘We’re here because Ms Watkins seems to have convinced Mr Lockley that I should be considering a possible connection between the death, due to heart failure, of Samuel Dennis Spicer, chaplain to the Special Air Service… and the murder of Mansel Bull. Is that correct?’

  As if she was addressing a fourth person at the table. At least the voice hadn’t changed. Still crunching ice cubes.

  ‘And the link,’ Howe said, ‘would appear to be a third man, Colin Jones.
A man in whom Mr Lockley’s people seem to have been interested for a while.’

  ‘Been felt…’ Lockley cleared his throat ‘… that an eye should be kept on him, yes.’

  ‘Although nothing was conveyed to us. Until now, when it might just be getting embarrassing.’

  ‘Nothing to say until now, Annie.’

  Howe leaned back, arms folded, a posture reflecting decades of resentment between the police and soft-shoed spooks who wrote their own rules.

  ‘Who exactly did you have keeping an eye on Jones, Mr Lockley?’

  ‘People we trust, mostly ex-army. And it’s been very low-key. For example, we once booked a chap into a tourism course that Jones’s ex-wife was attending. Which was quite productive.’

  Merrily sat up. Those old contracting walls. Garrison Ledwardine.

  Annie Howe bent to her briefcase and slid out a laptop, which she opened up on the table.

  ‘And there’s another man, in whom we’ve had a mild interest over the years – Kenneth Mostyn, Jones’s business partner. Since establishing Hardkit he’s been suspected of selling imported surveillance equipment – illegal at the time, though nowadays there’s not much you can’t obtain through the Internet.’

  ‘Mostyn’s very much a type,’ Lockley said. ‘More common in the US, where you find whole communities of them in cabins in the wilds, living out their fantasies of the collapse of civilization. Every man for himself, usually armed to the teeth.’

  ‘He certainly sells a range of shotguns. How he became involved with Jones… can you throw some light there?’

  ‘Simply convenient for them both. Mostyn had a side enterprise running adventure holidays – canoeing, rock climbing – but it didn’t have the glamour that an SAS connection confers. The joint enterprise operates under a rather enticing cloak of secrecy – students brought in at night, sometimes blindfolded, or driven around to disorient them. Quite soon, through word of mouth, it became, you know, the thing to do. If you could afford it.’

  ‘And perhaps we should also mention Ward Savitch.’

  ‘Chap running champagne shooting weekends for corporate clients. High-level contacts in the City – venerable financial institutions putting their executives into an intensive course designed to make them leaner and fitter. Especially useful – and this is the ingenious part – after the recession and the huge backlash against the financial sector, particularly banks and bankers. The old killer instinct shrivelling under the public spotlight.’