Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain

by Phil Rickman

  ‘What’s it got to do with Charlie?’

  ‘Rang this morning, confiding that Lord Walford, that respected ex-chairman of the Police Authority, was concerned about my “astonishing behaviour” towards his son-in-law. Never mind that Sollers is notoriously unfaithful to Walford’s daughter, he’s one of us. “I really can’t see what your problem is, Anne,” my father says. “It’s open and shut.” With the emphasis on shut.’

  ‘Shut as in—’ Merrily twisted in her seat. ‘Annie, this is the murder of Mansel Bull. Who also, surely, was very much “one of us”. It’s shut? As in case closed?’

  ‘As good as. Remember hanging it on the dead? Two knife killings – two slasher killings within a few rural miles – how could there not be a connection? Mostyn’s an SAS-fantasist who runs hardcore adventure courses for men who want more risk in their lives, has obscure religious beliefs and likes to hang out with he-man celebs like Smiffy Gill. His love of violence is implicit. Walking time-bomb.’

  Annie Howe glared angrily at the dash.

  ‘What if he has an alibi?’ Merrily said. ‘What if there’s someone who knows he couldn’t have been at Oldcastle at the time?’

  ‘He was with Jones. Who told us that? Jones did. Jones who shot Mostyn dead and is still out there – somewhere. We even have a possible motive. Seems Mansel Bull persistently refused to allow Mostyn and his clients to use his land for rough shooting, prompting a number of angry exchanges. Mostyn seemed very frustrated about that.’

  ‘Where did that one come from?’

  ‘Sollers Bull.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Who phoned someone… over my head… to remind them. Why didn’t he mention it to Bliss? Well, of course he mentioned it – doesn’t Bliss remember? You see? Are we looking for anyone else? Why would we?’

  ‘What about the London clients?’

  ‘I told you how long it would take to track them down. How costly. And why would we need to? London bankers and financiers worshipping some ancient Roman god of war? Oh please.’

  ‘This is—’

  ‘I know what it is. I’m sorry – I really am no fun, am I? Famous for it. Severe, po-faced, strait-laced, entirely without imagination and destined to walk on eggshells for the rest of my indifferent career because… because of my father.’

  Merrily couldn’t summon any kind of smile.

  ‘So Mostyn killed Mansel Bull?’

  ‘Mostyn killed everybody except himself. Mostyn is Derek Bird and Raoul Moat and the Hungerford man and the Dunblane man… and just as dead as all of them.’

  ‘But Byron knows the truth. Wherever he is.’

  ‘His bungalow’s empty. He hasn’t been officially seen since he walked out of Gaol Street. We’re searching.’

  ‘What are your feelings… about this whole mess?’

  ‘What would you imagine?’ Annie Howe said. ‘Sick to my stomach and determined to preserve my increasingly contemptible career for as long as it takes to nail Sollers Bull. And I was never here, and we never had this conversation.’

  Christ always died on the cross at three p.m., British Summer Time. Just over an hour to set things up for the Julian meditation.

  The Rev. Martin Longbeach, who’d been hauled in to take over the routine services, had left around noon, refusing lunch at the vicarage. Not the time, he’d said, patting Merrily on the arm. Then they closed the gift shop in the vestry and pulled the moveable pews into a circle below the rood screen for however many other parishioners had decided to tough it out with Mother Julian.

  The beeswax candle on the altar flared under the Zippo, and Merrily felt its heat and that gentle sense of handmaiden.

  She knelt for a moment. Last night she’d felt, on two occasions, that another woman was with her in Brinsop churchyard, stepping lightly between the gravestones. But for the horror of what had followed, those memories of Brinsop might have retained a slightly baffling glow.

  And a smudge of guilt.

  It had seemed a bit silly at first, using Lol’s map – which he’d left in the car – and the compass to determine the rough positions of the four most convincing leys passing through the church, but once you identified them you could almost see them unravelling across the moon-creamed fields.

  Channels for prayer.

  Pagan prayer, doubtless, when – if – the leys had been created, back in the Bronze Age or earlier. And yet Merrily had felt that Mother Julian would have approved. Things were different in the Middle Ages; the Christian Church had no problems with magic.

  She’d heard Jane’s voice. You’re playing with the Big Forces here.

  Quartering the communion wafer with her nail scissors, she’d placed a segment on what she’d perceived as each of the leys, around the edge of the churchyard.

  The prayers had been for… serenity, Merrily supposed, res- toration of balance, and the God had been Julian’s God, without whose warmth and gentility the human race would never have survived. Mother God.

  And the energy had come, unequivocally, from the full moon.

  Mother Goddess.

  A female thing.

  Up yours, Mithras.

  She’d walked away feeling the terrifying rightness of it, thinking that when things were calmer she’d have to tell Jane what she’d done.

  Felt obliged.

  And there was something else for Jane. When she’d rung Neil Cooper, as promised, to tell him about the possibility of Mithraic remains at Brinsop, he already knew. The police had asked for someone to come along when they excavated the temple and surrounds to see what was there.

  Merrily had also told Neil about Jane and university. Why Jane was reluctant to go and thereby miss the excavation of Coleman’s Meadow. Neil said he’d talk to the guys hired for the dig to see if they could use somebody to make the tea and stuff. Probably not a gap year but maybe a gap six months, on peanuts pay.

  Earlier today, Jane had been palely determined: I will go to university. I’ll work like hell, get the grades and go as far away from here as I can. I’m no good for this place, I’m a bloody liability.

  Like that. She’d come round.

  Resurrection of Christ. Resurrection of Ledwardine. Resurrection of Jane.

  At key moments in the Julian meditation, Merrily would hold in her head an image of the crucifixion stain on the wall of Brinsop Church.

  If it all fell flat – and she’d know – then last night had been the first signs of a dangerous eccentricity, and it might be time to think about getting out of the job.

  The vestry door was ajar, the way it was never left any more. The smell of mud and sweat came to her. Merrily froze. The voice at her shoulder was not a voice you wanted to hear, alone, in the dimness.

  ‘A few minutes of your time, please, Mrs Watson.’

  81

  The Toxic Dilemma

  THE ENERGY-SAVING BULBS in the vestry sputtered in nervous dawn-like tints as he shut the door.

  ‘Lock it,’ he said.

  He wore a black woollen hat, hiking gear, a pack too lightweight to be a Bergen. Just another long-distance walker, although the sweat suggested he’d been running and the mud spatters suggested it hadn’t been along established footpaths.

  Across the room, from which there was no easy escape, Merrily didn’t move. On one side of her a table with prayer books, on the other a carousel of ‘Beautiful Ledwardine’ postcards. Above her, a window that didn’t open.

  He said, ‘Just do it, please.’

  ‘Byron…’ Keeping her eyes on him, her voice low. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d really rather not be in a locked room with you.’

  He smiled, revealing all the black lines in his teeth.

  ‘Want your help, that’s all.’

  ‘I really don’t think so.’

  Perhaps she should have been afraid, but she was just annoyed. About everything. He didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Do you know what Power of Attorney means?’

  ‘I
do, actually. Studied law for a year, before… life took over.’

  He reached into an inside pocket, lifting out a long buff envelope.

  ‘I want to give you Power of Attorney.’

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘Disposal of my property. Which is not inconsiderable these days. All the land, all the buildings, the bungalow, all paid for. Also a small apartment in Hereford. Surprising how much money you can make in a short time, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m a vicar.’

  He didn’t smile.

  ‘If I appeared irritated with you, back at the cop shop, it was only because I could see you catching on. Picking up on too many things, joining too many ends. But then, your religion and mine do have a lot in common.’

  ‘Not really, Byron. Ritual murder might be a point of contention.’

  He didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘Of course, you’re also part of the problem. Women priests and guys like that nancy who was filling in for you today. But I did come away admiring you, the way you put your finger on the worm in the apple. Now…’ He extracted the contents of the envelope. ‘I had this done some while back. I’ve always been tidy that way. Had a bloke in mind to expedite things, but we fell out. Go on… read it.’

  Merrily moved to pick up the paper, never taking her gaze off him, and backed off with it.

  THIS GENERAL POWER OF ATTORNEY is made this

  day of by COLIN JONES of The Compound, Brinsop, Herefordshire.

  I APPOINT MERRILY WATKINS of The Vicarage, Ledwardine, Herefordshire, to be my Attorney in accordance with Section 10 of the Powers of Attorney Act 1971

  IN WITNESS whereof I have hereunto set my hand the day and year first before written

  SIGNED as a Deed and delivered

  by the said COLIN JONES in the presence of:-

  ‘This authorizes you to act in my name. Sell all the property and see that the proceeds are distributed, fifty-fifty, to the people I shall name to you.’

  She said, ludicrously, ‘You got my name right.’

  ‘I always knew your name. Legal stuff, you don’t make mistakes. I’m going away, Mrs W, and wish to dispose of my property meaningfully. I shot a man. As you know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Be pictures of The Compound in all the rags. TV, the Net. Truth is, it was as good as over when they killed Farmer Bull. Bloody Kenny. What a mistake he was.’

  ‘Because he wasn’t a soldier. Because he had no discipline.’

  ‘Kenny was the worm in the apple. Hanging out with that clown from The Octane Show, appearing on promotional videos. Fame and fortune. That was never what this was about.’

  ‘But Kenny didn’t kill Farmer Bull. Or—’

  ‘He let it happen. He was doing stuff on his own, taking men through the degrees. Stuff I didn’t know about. At first, when you take a civilian through the degrees, you think it’ll change them. Nah. Not in the right way.’

  ‘It changed you.’

  She was thinking, Some men win at snooker and some at poker, too…

  He sat on the edge of the table.

  ‘I was responsible. You accept that, then you take action. Mithras doesn’t forgive. Couldn’t exactly fire Mostyn when he owned half the company. Better there was an accident. Not here. Somewhere remote. Beacons, maybe. Just biding my time. Another mistake. Unless you take immediate action…’

  He pushed the form towards her. His fingers touched hers, briefly; she looked up into his lined face. Part of him was watching her, impassive, beyond stimulation. She felt that another part of him was already going away, something receding.

  ‘I still don’t understand why me.’

  ‘Don’t have many choices. I believe you won’t double-deal. And you know the people concerned.’

  ‘It needs another signature. A witness.’

  ‘Someone here you can trust? Preferably not your boyfriend.’

  Whose life he might have saved. He just might.

  ‘Byron, there are several people I can trust. None of whom I’m prepared to expose to a man who I have every reason to think may have a gun with him.’

  He grinned, turned his back on her. When he turned around again, it lay across the palm of his big, leathery hand.

  ‘The Glock.’ He placed it carefully on the table, pushed it towards Merrily. ‘I may ask for it back before I leave.’

  She didn’t touch it. They both knew she could pick it up, point it at him and call the police. Always assuming it was loaded, and somehow, she thought, it would be.

  Byron placed the pistol in the centre of the table, took a stack of prayer books from the pile and arranged them around the Glock on four sides, finally placing one on top.

  ‘You got a phone on you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Phone for a witness.’

  Merrily pulled her mobile from her jeans then put it down on the table.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Long as you’re not playing for time so your congregation turns up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expose a congregation to this. We have about forty minutes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When you tried to pass your religion off as just a series of exercises, a discipline – was that just for Lockley and Howe, or do you believe that?’

  ‘You’ve just reminded me why I found you so annoying.’ He stood up. ‘It’s a secular age. It doesn’t matter what you believe, it’s how you sell it. You have to use acceptable terminology. Nobody likes a crank, certainly not the men I deal with.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re that cynical.’

  ‘Who’s your proposed witness?’

  ‘Gomer Parry.’

  ‘Sensible choice. Could’ve wrecked my digger last night, but he didn’t.’

  ‘He would never wreck a digger. You know him?’

  ‘Of him. Make your call. Keep it casual, and he comes alone. If an armed response unit arrives, I’ll just bite the barrel. You don’t want that in here.’

  God.

  ‘And there’ll be no money for Fiona.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Fiona Spicer?’

  ‘Make your call. And I’ll be listening for nuances.’

  Merrily put in the number and waited. It was surreal. Be easier if she could feel an accessible evil: the night stench in the tower room, the squirming male miasma assailing Jane in the mithraeum, which Jane had talked about only once when they were alone, staring blankly into the fireplace, disconnected, as if she was repeating someone else’s story. Jane, whose knowledge of Mithraism had been virtually non-existent then.

  ‘Gomer Parry Plant Hire.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Gomer, it’s me. You… got a few minutes to spare? Over at the church.’

  ‘Sure to, vicar.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be in the vestry.’

  Simple as that. When the line cleared, Byron was nodding. Merrily put the phone on the table next to the stack of prayer books.

  ‘You really think Fiona’s going to accept anything from you?’

  He blinked just once.

  ‘She can give it to her daughter, or a charity of her choosing. I liked Syd. You could only quarrel – on that level of intensity – with someone who was a brother.’

  ‘And Fiona? What was your quarrel with her?’

  He looked at Merrily for a long time, his face blank. Then he transferred his gaze to the wall behind her. She tensed in horror. Mithras always looks away.

  But then he turned back to her, his blue eyes steady.

  ‘I take full responsibility for everything I’ve done. No papering over cracks. No sentiment here. No apology. I don’t do that.’

  ‘Was that why you left Liz? Because you realized the elements you were dealing with…’

  ‘… were unsuited to a domestic situation. I’ll confirm that much. I had respect for my wife.’

  That’s why you were so very publicly screwing your way around Hereford?

  ‘And when Mostyn ki
lled the banker, Cornel, did he do that on his own? You know what I’m asking, don’t you? I understand he turned his head away when he did it. Do you think he was entirely responsible then for his own—?’

  ‘You’re back to the same question.’

  ‘I’m not a cop. These things matter to me.’

  Confronting the impossibility of her own job. The toxic dilemma she’d tried to evoke for the students in the chapel. To what extent you want to demonize this is up to you.

  Byron shook his head.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t entirely responsible? No, he’d surrendered his—?’

  ‘How’s Barry?’

  ‘He’ll lose an eye. They think.’

  ‘But he’ll live. That’s what it said on the radio.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘That was regrettable.’ Byron looked mildly affected. ‘He was a good soldier. Shot, unarmed, by a man who wasn’t fit to clean his boots. I’m taking responsibility. He’ll be the second beneficiary. Fiona, Barry. See to that, would you? Might be enough for a down payment on a big old pub. If there happened to be one on the market.’

  ‘You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?’

  ‘No sentiment, no apology. We take action, then we walk away.’

  ‘How will you live?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘All right.’ Merrily shook herself. ‘Tell me one more thing. When Syd died on Credenhill… you were there, weren’t you?’

  He thought for just a moment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You must’ve been worried when you heard he was coming back, as chaplain.’

  ‘I never worry.’

  She heard the squeak of the church doors. There was no time. There had to be time.

  ‘As far as I could see, Byron, there were two ways of looking at this – at Syd coming back – and one would be an opportunity. The chaplain’s the only direct feed into the spiritual life of the Regiment. If there was anything left of Mithras in Syd… if he was, to any extent, in denial… you might still see an old ambition realized. That John the Baptist side of you.’