The Secrets of Pain mw-11 Page 8

  ‘Sod off, Jane.’

  ‘You’re going into denial already?’

  ‘Not exactly denial…’

  ‘Easter was the most profound of all seasonal festivals way before Christianity. Even the Last Supper has pagan origins. And, like… I think you said Julian of Norwich actually wished for her illness… invoking mortality in the hope of rebirth? Experiencing those visions in like the delirium of near-death?’

  Merrily sighed.

  ‘It’s all totally valid,’ Jane said. ‘The village has lost its mojo. You need to kick-start the ancient engines. And some asses.’

  Jane looking down, slowly massaging Ethel under the chin. Ancient engines. They’d been here before. The creaking and stirring of old Ledwardine, spiritual sap seeping eerily into centuries-dead oak timbers. Jane’s favourite picture of herself was the one taken by Eirion, her boyfriend, in Coleman’s Meadow, bare arms raised to the sun. Handmaiden of the Goddess.

  ‘Needs to be seriously harrowing, Mum. Like, when a place gets into disaster mode, expecting the worst all the time, the worst just seems to go on happening. Unless you step in with an act of sacrifice.’

  ‘Jane, how can I put this? We don’t actually want to scare people?’

  Although we do, obviously, Huw Owen said now in Merrily’s head, watching a bulb swing like some sinister censer.

  Merrily had spent an hour underlining passages in Revelations of Divine Love. Normally on a Monday afternoon, she’d have driven into Hereford to go through the deliverance diary with Sophie, but the Monday before Easter was for planning and organizing the weekend ahead.

  There was also a parish council meeting on Wednesday. Uncle Ted, senior churchwarden, had a proposal to create a permanent cafe in the church. Turn it into the heart of the village again, he said. Also make some money. So what would happen to the silence? Where would you go when you needed to be alone with something that didn’t judge, didn’t question, didn’t ask you if you wanted to buy a raffle ticket?

  Merrily looked up, out of the scullery window at the lesions in the sky. The sky was momentarily blurred. Maybe she needed glasses. A middle-age thing. It would come, sooner rather than later. Now she had an adult daughter. God…

  The phone rang. She shut her eyes for a second before picking up.

  ‘All right, lass?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  Hadn’t spoken to him since Saturday morning. A sparse breakfast, just the two of them, Syd Spicer having left silently before first light, as they’d both known he would.

  ‘Just had a call.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  Merrily watched the daffodils still huddled in their buds. You didn’t have to be psychic.

  ‘He’s laughing. “Huwie,” he says, “just a slight problem here, mate, a mere technicality…”’

  ‘A mere technicality. He said that?’

  ‘And laughed.’

  She could hear the laughter. It would be artificial. She felt for a cigarette, still staring out of the window. Under the winter-bleached church wall, banks of snowdrops were only now beginning to droop next to the emerging daffs.

  ‘And what was the technicality?’

  ‘If a man feels… let’s say oppressed by the perceived proximity of someone who’s passed on, someone who, in life, was known to him but who was, shall we say, a flawed person, how is it best to get this presence off the premises?’

  ‘Requiem eucharist? You might expect him to know that.’

  ‘He said there could be complications. Here comes the technicality. He suspects there could be what he describes as strongly negative energy behind the manifestations.’

  ‘Plural?’

  ‘Plural, aye. Suggests a chronic case.’

  ‘Is this one of his, erm, flock?’

  ‘Declines to be specific. But why else the secrecy? I reminded him I wasn’t his spiritual director. I said Hereford Diocese wasn’t my patch, I said he needed to talk to somebody else.’

  ‘And he said…?’

  ‘He said he thought that when you were describing the case of Mr Joy you hadn’t finished the story. He wanted to know what nobody else had the nous to ask about. What you did afterwards to keep Mr Joy out of your life.’

  ‘I see. That negative.’

  ‘Cry for help, Merrily.’

  ‘If that’s a cry for help, it’s pitched too high for my hearing. Look…’ She pulled the last cigarette out of the packet. ‘I was new to it then. I was very scared. I’d listened to an old wives’ tale from an old woman who’d dabbled in areas I was supposed to abhor, and…’

  ‘And it worked.’

  ‘Something worked. Well… so far.’

  ‘It worked because you did it in the right spirit.’

  ‘You could argue…’ Merrily stared at the church wall, with all its lichens and life forms ‘… that the right spirit would be not to have done it at all. The purer soul does it with considered prayer. This was… something else.’

  The cold finger was on Merrily’s spine. Up sprang the spidery figure of a creepy old woman in a care home whose name was Anthea but who only answered to Athena.

  ‘And you told him, did you?’

  ‘What I knew of it. Threw in a couple of defensive penta-grams, point up. See what reaction I got to that. He said nowt, seemed to be writing it down.’

  Merrily remembered discussing Athena’s advice with Huw afterwards. How it bordered on what Jane would call magical ritual, and Huw had asked her if she realized how many so-called magical rituals had come out of the medieval Catholic Church.

  She wondered if Syd had noted what she’d told Huw’s students about not necessarily analysing everything in depth.

  That’s why we have the rituals and the liturgy… just do it.

  Still not sure how true that was.

  ‘How does this feel to you?’ Merrily asked.

  ‘Feels wobbly. Temporary. I don’t like it, but if the bugger won’t come clean…’

  ‘It’s personal, isn’t it? It’s him.’

  ‘Or connected to him.’

  ‘Is he going to come back to you afterwards? Tell you – man to man – if it worked? Because he isn’t going to come to me, is he?’

  ‘Happen you should smother your pride and give him a call.’

  ‘I haven’t got his new number.’

  ‘I have it here,’ Huw said. ‘Give him a day or so, then call him. I think it were bloody hard for him to give away much as he did. I reckon he’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Merrily said.

  13

  Killing Fields

  The core squad, in the CID room in front of the box. All the blinds up on a heavyweight early-evening sky. A gathering dismay in the room. Bliss howling.

  ‘What are these bastards trying to do? It’s like it’s been orchestrated.’

  He’d come in halfway through the replay of the national news. He sat down, shaken.

  ‘How far it was planned is of no great importance at the present time,’ Annie Howe said. ‘It’s happening, and we need to respond to it.’

  Annie had returned in a rare sparkling mood, the Worcester jury having come back unexpectedly with a nice result: two out of three guilty on the stabbing. The DCI’s fizz had survived the national TV news, but the extended version on Midlands Today was something else.

  ‘… poisoned our towns.’

  On the screen, some fat bastard bulging out of his tweeds. ‘… and now it’s overflowing into rural areas. All the time, we see strangers in old vans, clearly up to no good, but we know we’re wasting our time reporting it, because it’ll be ignored… simply ignored.’

  Cut to camel-coat-and-headscarf woman by a five-barred gate.

  ‘ Obvious why they don’t care. Coming out here’s jolly time-consuming, and everybody knows they can meet their arrest and conviction targets far quicker and more cheaply in the towns.’

  ‘Trouble is, she’s not far wrong there, is she?’ Bliss said.

  �
��Though we won’t be expressing those sentiments outside of this room, will we, Francis?’ Annie Howe said quietly, not looking at him. ‘Karen, run the item again from the beginning, would you, please? We need to know who they all are.’

  Karen Dowell played about with the remote, brought up the current Midlands Today Barbie-and-Ken presentation team.

  Man: ‘ With the hunt for the brutal killer of a Herefordshire farmer in its third day, a rural pressure group has been accusing police of failing the countryside.’

  Woman: ‘ And, as Mandy Patel reports, the attack’s been spear-headed by the brother of the murdered man, who says West Mercia Police repeatedly ignored reports of intruders on their land.’

  Familiar shots of the middle Wye Valley looking bare and wind-scoured. Patel’s voice describing how the mood in Herefordshire had swung from horror to rage, as the vision cut to an obvious protest meeting. Bunch of people at a raised table, draped in banners. Apart from Sollers Bull, Bliss recognized nobody.

  Annie said to Karen, ‘Who’s the man in the red waistcoat?’

  ‘Can’t remember his name, ma’am, but I’m pretty sure he’s the county chairman-elect of the NFU. And the guy next to him…’

  ‘Is Lord Walford?’

  Karen nodded.

  Bliss said, ‘Who the fuck’s Lord Walford?’

  ‘Old Tory peer, boss. And Sollers Bull’s father-in-law.’

  ‘Also a former member of the police authority,’ Annie said, ‘Where’s this happening, exactly?’

  Walls of light wood, spotlights from exposed rafters. Pine tables.

  ‘The restaurant at Sollers Bull’s farm shop,’ Karen said. ‘Out on the Leominster Road. My mum works there, part-time. Got to say I’ve been around here all my life, ma’am, but there’s quite a few people I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.’

  ‘Yes, well, me neither,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Which possibly lends credence to their claim that it’s a national movement.’

  ‘Freeze it,’ Bliss said. ‘ There – isn’t that one of those ageing boy racers from The Octane Show?’

  ‘Smiffy Gill,’ Terry Stagg said. ‘Lives just over in Wales.’

  ‘Just the kind of flash twat who’d throw his driving gloves into the ring for this shite,’ Bliss said.

  Above the panel of nobs at the raised table, a sign, green on white, covered half the wall.

  COUNTRYSIDE DEFIANCE

  The camera pulling back from the sign, the reporter saying, in voice-over, ‘ The organizers insist this is not a spin-off from the Countryside Alliance but a new response to what they say is an urgent situation.’

  ‘Hold it there,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Man at the back, black hair, receding jawline. Tim… Tim somebody. Member of the police committee.’

  ‘Who’s he supporting?’ Bliss said.

  ‘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 precis 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 hea
dlights 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.