Friends of the Dusk (33 page)

‘Elly, for f—’

‘It won’t go away till you deal with it, Francis. I know these people.’

‘Mother of God.’ Bliss’s mitt tightening around his coffee cup. ‘It’s a
shop.
What
kind
of friggin’ shop doesn’t matter.’

‘For the red tops, what kind of shop is everything, and they didn’t even need to climb over any walls for the picture you’ll be seeing in tomorrow’s papers.’

She’d shown him her tablet, and Bliss had shuddered. The Darkest Corner website – should he even have been surprised? – was like the front of some missing Black Sabbath album from 1972. No sign of Jerry Soffley, just a dark-eyed witchy woman in a Scottish Widows cloak sitting in a steeple-backed chair in the centre of Organ Yard with a familiar plastic skull in her lap.

He’d had to put someone on to finding out who she was – possibly Soffley’s second wife – and paying her a visit before the hacks found her.

‘For all we know at this stage, Elly,
she
killed Soffley, and Greenaway’s a completely different case. Why don’t you get the DCI to talk to the press? That’ll give the bastards a scare.’

‘Because the DCI says it has to be you,’ Elly Clatter said.

For DCI read SIO, which was good, a mercy. Two murders, under normal circs you’d automatically get some Worcester
suit, but pressure of work – an outbreak of terrorism-linked, nervy stuff, up at the northern end – had removed the threat. Bliss was working for Annie.

‘Boss, surely…’ Vaynor loping upstairs, three at a time, behind them. ‘… given that the nature of Soffley’s business is already on the Net, we can hardly hold back on the gothics.’

‘I’m exercising me right to play it down, and I’m not gonna link it to the murder by introducing them to Steve. Not yet, anyway.’

‘What if they go into Neogoth on the Net?’

‘Without Steve, it’ll tell them nothing. Definitely no Steve.’

The Major Investigation Room was what used to be the Control Room till all that went to HQ to be run by people who’d never been west of Pershore. Day one in the MIR was always going to remind Bliss of the first day at his comp, aged eleven. Little kid in a hostile crowd, too many kids who all seemed to know one another. Hated school.

Near the back, Terry Stagg was laughing with two retired detectives with beer guts from before Bliss’s time. Lot of extra bodies in from Worcester, including civvies and boffins and people who knew how to talk to HOLMES, the Microsoft murder machine. Two linked killings was a three-megabyte problem.

Annie wasn’t here. She’d have issues to offload, delegate, make some space for this, so Bliss was still ringmaster.

He kept his briefing short, Karen Dowell, sitting next to him behind an iPad and three bottles of spring water. Apart from the house-to-house, the shop-to-shop and the CCTV search, today was mainly going to be call-centre stuff, much of it based on names pulled from both victims’ computers.

He looked from window to window, one featuring a lot of lower roof and all three big city churches, the Cathedral, St Peter’s and All Saints, projecting like the prongs of a trident under a darkening sky. Sonia, the CID seagull, was plucking at the remains of someone’s sarnie.

‘I’m gonna give yer all a key-phrase,’ Bliss said. ‘
Friends of the Dusk.
This is the only significant name found on both lappies. Who are they? What are they? Where are they? Indeed,
are
they? Do they still exist? I’m assuming none of us, apart from Karen, have come across them. Maybe in the distant past? Anybody?’

He glanced over to the beer guts in the corner. No reaction.

Terry Stagg said, ‘Is it a gay thing?’

‘Soffley, as far as we know, definitely wasn’t. Two ex-wives. One we’ve spoken to who dumped him for serial adultery. Having broken up his first marriage thinking she could change him. So, no, Terrence, gay is on the back-burner. Darth.’

‘What’s the actual context here? In both cases.’

Bliss turned to Karen, who consulted her iPad.

‘Basically, Friends of the Dusk occurs on Soffley’s database of Neogoth members. Greenaway, however, mentions what is probably them the day before he died. This is on an email which simply says, quote, “Gordon, do you have a contact for FOTD. I don’t want to go through Neogoth, if I can help it. I’d also really like to try and get through to JT, though I accept that won’t be easy.”’

‘But as we now know, he
did
have to go through Neogoth,’ Bliss said. ‘Because Gordon wasn’t able to assist. Replies that he hasn’t heard from any of them in years and thinks the group might have fallen apart. He also says, Karen…?’

‘“I imagine Mr T’s far too big for all that now.” Gordon lives in Totnes, Devon, from where he runs – or ran – an Internet magazine. Devon and Cornwall are finding him for us. Quite soon, I hope.’

‘So. FOTD and Mr T… JT,’ Bliss said. ‘Who is he? We’re assuming that all this relates to Steve. For reasons as yet unknown, Tristram Greenaway wanted the Friends of the Dusk to see that piccy – which we would really
like
to be of the skull unearthed on Castle Green, but we can’t even be certain about that as Neil Cooper says he didn’t see it for long enough.’

Bliss uncapped a bottle of spring water. Had too much caffeine today, already.

‘Now.’ Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. ‘Let’s deal quickly with the Hammer Films bit. Because this – although you
don’t
reveal it to anybody – is likely to inform a lorra your questions during the long call-centre hours.’

Karen brought Steve up on the screen behind them. Bliss talked for a while about deviant burials and the kind of people who might be interested in one. Bringing up the expected smiles when he let the v-word out.

‘So, Francis…’ Rich Ford, the uniform inspector, was leaning in the doorway at the bottom of the room, looking unmoved. ‘… we could be looking for somebody with what you might call a distinctive lifestyle?’

It was rumoured Rich was coming up to his thirty and talking with the brass about pension deals. Already demob-happy.

‘No plan at this stage,’ Bliss said, to get this shit over with, ‘of ringing round the health clinics in search of any bugger with a garlic allergy.’

‘But if we’re looking for someone who walks by night, Francis,’ Rich Ford said, ‘presumably—’

‘Nor will we be talking to Charlie Howe,’ Bliss said.

When Devon and Cornwall came through, Bliss and Karen were down in Bliss’s office. A DC Peter Lord in Exeter. She put him on speaker.

‘Gordon Barclay-Hughes works in some sort of herbal cig shop. Quite legal, ahem. He’s all right, basically. Bit off the planet. Knew Tristram Greenaway, but not about him being murdered. Quite upset, but not
too
upset. Confirms he exchanged emails with Greenaway about Friends of the Dusk, about which he’s happy to talk to you. You thinking of coming down?’

Karen looked at Bliss, who wrinkled his nose.

‘Might just talk to him on the phone first,’ Karen said.

‘JT,’ Peter Lord said. ‘Jim Turner. My son loves his films.’

‘Films, Peter?’

‘Boy’s room’s full of DVDs. Actually, I didn’t know who JT was either till Gordon told me and I ran him past the kid. Dunno if he’s in this country or not. I’ll leave that to you.’

‘Absolutely,’ Karen said. ‘Thanks, Peter. Very speedy service.’

Bliss saw she was already tapping Jim Turner into Google. Not a name he was familiar with either. No wiser when the image came up: beardie bloke with a shaven head, his back to a cinema poster. He stood up, reading over Karen’s shoulder.

‘Let’s get Darth in, he knows all about these arty twats.’

Karen did some rapid tapping and scrolling, freshly washed dark hair bobbing away, then sat back, like she’d given birth.

‘Look at this, Frannie. We on a roll here or what?’

45

Courting the goddess

H
UW DIDN
’
T STAY
for lunch, saying he didn’t like the look of the weather. Storms usually came in over the Beacons. There were things Merrily wanted to ask him, but they could probably wait.

She went over to Jim Prosser’s Eight Till Late for some feta cheese and fresh salad material. Jane had not come down by the time she was back. She went through to the scullery and bit the bullet.

The woman – very posh – at Lyme Farm asked if she was Mr Kindley-Pryce’s niece. Friend of the family, she said. Didn’t say which family.

‘When did you see him last?’

‘Oh, quite a while. I’ve…’

‘You do realize he may not recognize you?’

‘I’m prepared for that.’

‘Three o’clock?’

‘Fine. Thank you.’

Her name and address were taken. She gave the right ones – you could only go so far. She’d already called Foxy Rowlestone’s publishers. Their publicity department said Foxy’s editor had left some years ago. When Merrily had suggested they must have an address to send her royalties to and pass on fan mail, they took down her number and her email address. She didn’t, somehow, expect to hear from them.

She rang Martin Longbeach, currently locum vicar at Underhowle, up near the Forest of Dean. Not around. She left a short message on his machine. Martin had been a member of
the aborted Hereford Deliverance Panel, with Siân Callaghan-Clarke and the psychiatrist Nigel Saltash. She’d done Martin some favours. His turn now.

Not that any of it would help.

Over lunch Jane said, ‘You going to tell me about Aisha Malik?’

‘I’ve never met her. Only listened to other people talking about her, and that can be misleading. I expect you can tell me a lot I don’t know.’

‘Well, not much, actually. But it might be confirmation of something.’

Jane opened up her iPad, telling her about the Foxy Rowlestone Appreciation Society and the rather more adult Fang Forum.

‘Struck me as crazy, Mum, that series packing in after two books. Foxy was sitting on a fortune.’

‘Only half of Foxy was left with a functioning mind.’

‘So? From what you say, it’s the woman who knew how to write – I mean, for kids. If the old guy had already given her the basics, why couldn’t she write more on her own? Even if she carried on giving him a share for doing nothing.’

‘That’s a good point, actually. If I could find her.’

‘Still in the area, you think?’

‘Could be anywhere.’ Merrily scrolled down. ‘Carmilla. Presumably naming herself after Sheridan le Fanu’s female vampire.’

‘One of the first. Pre-Dracula.’

‘I used to have a copy.’

‘In your goth days.’

‘Didn’t last long. As I keep emphasizing.’

I don’t know,’ Jane said. ‘Some people might say that becoming a priest, shamelessly wearing the black kit…’

‘Don’t start that again. This is the last, is it? “Wait for the dusk.”’

‘That’s when Carmilla seems to start taking her seriously.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘Because she’s given authentic details of where she lives.’

‘Yeah, but for that to cut any ice, Jane, Carmilla would have to
recognize
it as authentic.’

‘I didn’t think of that. You’re right.’

‘And if it was common knowledge in vampire circles she could still be making it up. Anything else from Aisha?’

‘There are just hundreds and hundreds of posts, and most of them are complete drivel. However, I did find one other. There might be more, but you spend all day…’ Jane pulled over the pad and searched around. ‘There you go.’

‘Mmm,’ Merrily said. ‘That’s a step forward, isn’t it? A fulfilling relationship across the Divide. With whom?’

‘I’ve been thinking about this. It’s on the Fang Forum so she doesn’t spell it out. If it was on the Foxy site, it would be more obvious. It could be mirroring the later situation between the girl in the book, Catherine, and Geraint, the blacksmith. The situation that seems to be hinted at in the second book, when Geraint apparently dies but returns – undead – to deal with the Summoner on his own level. Then I’m guessing we get kind of a Twilight situation where Geraint and Catherine might well develop an interesting relationship.’

‘Across the Divide.’

Jane nodded.

‘What’s your feeling about that? Is it bollocks or is it reflecting something?’

Jane put down her fork, gazing through the lower window at the green and mauve lichens on the churchyard wall.

‘I think she has a pretty vibrant fantasy life. I’d say
inner
life, but that might be pushing it. I keep thinking back to when I was doing the pagan thing out there.’

‘Courting the moon goddess.’

The look Jane flashed her was momentarily about fear and…
hurt
?

What?

Then it was gone.

‘Does that…’ Jane’s voice was low and flat. ‘… equate with what you know?’

‘I was in her room. We’d gone from room to room. Nadya, her mother, was anxious she shouldn’t be involved in this because she said she was happy here, untroubled. But it seemed to me that if hers was the only room that wasn’t blessed…’

‘Then it would just become a natural focus for… whatever you’re dealing with?’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘It might even be
driven
in there.’

‘Made a horrible sense,’ Merrily said. Sometimes Jane seemed to have an instinctive grasp of deliverance logic. ‘I felt that was what Huw Owen would be saying if he knew. Anyway, we went through the Maliks’ part of the house – Islamic wall hangings and medical books, quite a plain bedroom, other rooms in the process of being sorted out. Aisha’s room – she wasn’t there.’

‘Where was she?’

‘Don’t know. She goes for long walks. I’m surprised you didn’t see her.’

Jane’s eyes flickered.

‘That might have been interesting. What was in her room?’

‘Usual things. And some less usual. The books… fantasy and horror. And in the wardrobe, amongst the usual, there were some dark, gothic clothes, rather medieval. You’ve been there.’

‘Not like you have.’