Midwinter of the Spirit (15 page)

The Bishop?

‘I’d rather you said I’d never even been.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Tell them I didn’t answer the phone when you rang.’

‘Get yourself some rest. Call me at home sometime. I’ve written the number on your ciggy packet.’ Sister Cullen squeezed her shoulder. ‘Thank you, Merrily. You did OK, I reckon.’

‘For a Bible-basher?’

The Bishop?

Had the Bishop set her up for it?

This was the question she’d meant to ask. She remembered that as she was leaving the building, pulling on her coat. Who exactly had told them to contact her? Who had advised them that Merrily Watkins was Deliverance-trained and available for work?

Had to be him. He was dangerous. Michael Hunter – Bishop Cool – was a dangerous man to have organizing your career.

There was light in the sky and a cold wind. What the hell time was it? Where had she left the car all those hours ago when all she’d had to think about was Dobbs? She hurried down the drive and into the deserted street full of fresh cold air from the hills.

It was the cold
inside
that scared her. She stood and shivered by the entrance to the shambling jumble of a hospital where the body of Denzil Joy lay cooling.

I was raped
. Like icy letters in the sky.
He raped me
.

She felt greasy, slimy, soiled, used. He’d made his smell go into her, had scratched himself an entrance hole. And then he’d died, he’d gone away, but he’d left his filthy essence inside her. She needed a long shower, needed to pray. Needed to think. Because this would not,
could
not have happened to a male priest, a male exorcist.

I need exorcizing
.

Violently she zipped up her fading waxed coat and strode away into the pre-dawn murk. She would find a church that was open or, failing that, would go to her own church in Ledwardine. She couldn’t take the pitiful, disgusting dregs of Denzil home to Jane. She would have to go into a church and pray for his soul. Pray for it to be taken away somewhere and stripped and cleaned.

She saw that the old blue Volvo had been very badly parked, even for three in the morning: standing half on the grass near the little gardens where the footpath went up and then down to the Wye. Another six inches and she’d have backed into a sign saying:
NO PARKING. KEEP ENTRANCE CLEAR
. She fumbled out her keys.

‘Excuse me, madam.’

He’d blundered out of the bushes, a big heavy guy in some kind of rally anorak, luminous stripe down one arm. ‘Is this your car?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Police. How long has the car been here, please?’

All she needed.

‘Look, I’m sorry, I was in a hurry and I thought it’d be OK.’

‘When did you park it?’

‘About three, I suppose.’

‘To go to the hospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Look,’ Merrily said, exasperated, ‘it could’ve been parked a whole lot better, I agree. I’m very sorry. Give me a ticket or whatever. I’m a bit knackered, OK?’

‘It isn’t about parking, miss. Would you mind telling me your name, please?’

‘After I see your ID.’ Merrily unlocked the Volvo. If he took any time producing his warrant card, she was out of here. You didn’t trust big guys in the semi-dark – not these days.

‘It’s all right, Peter. It’s her.’ A woman in a long white raincoat emerged from the river path. ‘Ms Watkins, Person of the Cloth. I’ll deal with this.’

The big man nodded, trudged back up the footpath.

Merrily sighed. ‘DI Howe.’

‘Acting DCI, actually.’

‘The old fast track’s moved up a gear, has it?’ Weariness loosening Merrily’s reserve. ‘Let me guess, I’ve walked into some kind of stake-out. Colombian drugs barons are bringing a consignment up the Wye?’

Annie Howe didn’t laugh. It occurred to Merrily that she had yet ever to hear Annie Howe laugh. Her short, ashen hair gleamed dully like a helmet in the early light.

‘You priests work long hours. Sick parishioner?’

‘Dead,’ Merrily said. ‘Just now.’

‘Obviously a night for it, Ms Watkins.’

‘For what?’

Annie Howe came to stand next to her, glancing into the Volvo. She was maybe five years younger than Merrily – a smooth, efficient, over-educated CID person, both feet on the escalator. During the police hunt in Ledwardine earlier this year, Jane had remarked that Howe reminded her of a Nazi dentist. You could tell where the kid was coming from.

‘We’ve pulled a body out of the Wye, Ms Watkins. Just down there, not far from Victoria Bridge.’

‘Oh God. Just?’

‘Couple of hours ago.’

She remembered hearing the siren from the sluice-room window. ‘What happened?’

‘We’re not sure yet. But it didn’t appear to have been in the water an awfully long time, so we’re rather keen to talk to anyone who might have seen something’ – Howe smiled thinly – ‘or heard a solitary splash, perhaps.’

‘Not me.’

‘You arrived about three, I hear that right?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Nobody about at all?’

‘Not that I can recall.’

‘You ever been down to the river this way?’

‘Not really.’

‘It’s quite pretty,’ Howe said. ‘Come and see.’

Merrily sighed and followed her past some flowerless beds and a bench to a little parapet. Below them was a narrow suspension bridge, grey girders across the dark, misty river. A glimmering of pale plastic tape, and two policemen.

Howe said, ‘It’s just that if there’s a particular parking place most convenient for the river, then your car’s in it. We thought it might be the dead man’s at first. Quite a disappointment really, when your name came up as the owner.’

‘And when the body wasn’t a woman about my age in a dog-collar.’

‘Not quite what I meant. It just made it less easy to put a name to him. But we will.’

‘How old was he?’

‘Quite young. Thirties.’

‘Suicide?’

‘It’s a possibility, given the time of day. So’s accidental death.’ Annie Howe looked at Merrily. ‘So’s murder.’

‘He didn’t drown?’

‘We should know quite soon.’

‘But he came off the bridge?’

Howe shrugged.

‘If you knew it was my car, why didn’t you come into the hospital and ask for me?’

‘We did. Nobody seemed to know you were there.’

‘The Alfred Watkins Ward, if you want to check. Ask for Sister Cullen. I’ve been with her for the last three hours or so.’

Howe nodded. ‘So it’s unlikely you would’ve seen anything. Ah, well, nothing’s ever simple, is it, Ms Watkins? Thanks for your help. I don’t suppose we’ll be in touch, but if you remember anything that might be useful…’ the wind whipped the skirt of Howe’s raincoat against her calves, ‘you know where to find me.’

Merrily looked down into the swirling mist and dark water. It looked somehow warmer than she felt – and almost inviting.

13

Show Barn

I
T WAS RARE
to see genial Dick Lyden in a bad mood.

When Lol arrived just after eight a.m., Dick was pacing the kitchen, slamming his right fist into his left palm.

‘The little shit,’ he fumed. ‘The fucking little shit!’

‘He’s just trying it on,’ Mrs Ruth Lyden, fellow therapist, said calmly. ‘He knows you too well. He’s got you psyched out. He knows your particular weak spot and he goes for it.’

There was plenty of room for Dick to pace; the Lydens’ kitchen was as big as a restaurant kitchen, more than half as big as Lol’s new flat over the shop. It was all white and metallic like a dairy.

‘His psychological know-how goes out of the window when he’s dealing with his own son,’ Ruth told Lol. She was a large, placid, frizzy-haired woman who’d once been Dick’s personal secretary in London.

‘Well, you can’t, can you?’ Dick sat down at the banquetsized table. ‘You simply can’t distance yourself sufficiently from your own family – be wrong even to try. I think we’re probably even worse than ordinary people at dealing with our own problems.’

Lol didn’t like to ask what the present personal problem was; Ruth told him anyway.

‘James has been chosen as Boy Bishop.’ She searched Lol’s face, eyebrows raised. ‘You know about that?’

‘Sorry,’ Lol said. ‘I’m not that well up on the Church.’

‘Medieval Christmas tradition. Used to happen all over the place, but it’s almost unique to Hereford now. A boy is chosen from the Cathedral choristers, or the retired choristers, to replace the Bishop on his throne on St Nicholas’s Day. Gets to wear the mitre and wield the staff and whatnot. Terribly solemn and everything, though quite fun as well.’

‘It’s actually a great honour,’ Dick said. ‘Especially for newcomers like us. Little shit!’

‘And of course James now says he’s going to refuse to do it.’ Ruth poured coffee for Lol. ‘When they offered it to him, he was very flattered in a cynical sort of way. But now he’s announced it would be morally wrong of him to do it – having decided he’s an atheist—’

‘What the fuck difference does that make?’ Dick snarled. ‘At least twenty-five per cent of the bloody clergy are atheists!’

‘—and that it isn’t in line with his personal image or his musical direction. He’s sixteen now, and at sixteen one’s image is awfully well defined. How quickly they change! One year an angelic little choirboy, and then—’

‘A bloody yob,’ said Dick. ‘Where’s his guitar? I’m going to lock it in the shed.’

‘He’s taken it to school with him.’ Ruth hid a smile behind her coffee cup. ‘Told you he had you psyched.’

‘Devious little bastard.’ Dick drained his cup, coughed at the strength of the coffee. ‘Right, I’ll get my coat, Lol. Be good to go out and deal with something straightforward.’

‘Moon is straightforward?’

‘Well, you know what I mean. Straightforwardly convoluted.’

‘Poor Dick,’ Ruth said when he’d left the kitchen. ‘It’s an honour for
him
rather than James. A sign that he’s really been accepted into the city. He needs that – needs to be at the hub of things. He’s a terrible control-freak, really, in his oh-so-amiable way.’

Lol said, ‘Do you guys psychoanalyse one another
all
the time?’

Ruth laughed.

Outside, it began to rain, a sudden cold splattering.

‘Wow.’ Jane was observing her mother from the stove. ‘You really do look like shit.’

‘Thank you. I think we’ve established that.’

Merrily had told her about being delayed by the police investigating a body in the Wye. But that evidently didn’t explain why she looked like shit.

‘You need a hot bath,’ Jane said. ‘And then off to bed.’

‘The bath certainly.’ No question about that. Merrily watched the rain on the window. It looked dirty. Everything looked dirty even after twenty minutes before the altar.
Scritch-scratch
.

‘So.’ Jane shovelled inch-thick toast on to a plate. ‘You want to talk about the other stuff?’

‘What makes you think there’s other stuff?’

‘Do me a favour,’ Jane said.

The kid had realized, from quite soon after Sean’s death, that her mother would need someone on whom she could lay heavy issues. There were times when she instinctively became a kind of sensible younger sister – with no sarcasm, point-scoring, storage of information for future blackmail.

‘Hang on, though.’ Merrily looked up. ‘What time is it? The school bus’ll be going without you.’

‘I’m taking the day off. I have a migraine.’

‘In which case, flower, you appear to be coping with the blinding agony which defines that condition with what I can only describe as a remarkable stoicism.’

‘Yeah, it’s a fairly mild attack. But it could get worse. Besides, when you’ve really sussed out the way teachers operate, you can take the odd day off any time you like without missing a thing.’

‘Except you never have – have you?’

‘A vicar’s daughter has to be flexible. If I went to school, you’d stay up and work all day, and by the time I got home you’d be
soooo
unbearable.’

‘Jane—’

‘Don’t argue. Just have some breakfast and bugger off to bed. I’ll stick around, make a brilliant log fire – and repel all the time-wasting gits.’

Merrily gave up. ‘But this must never happen again.’

Jane shrugged.

‘All right,’ Merrily said. ‘No egg for me, thanks. My digestive system can just about cope with Marmite.’

‘Right.’ Jane brought the teapot to the table and sat down. ‘What’s disturbed it exactly?’

Merrily sighed a couple of times and watched the rain blurring the window. And she then told Jane about Denzil Joy.

Some of it.

Rain sheeted down on Dinedor Hill, the twisty road narrowing as they climbed.

Dick was clearly disappointed when they ran out of track for the massive Mitsubishi Intercooler Super Turbo-Plus he’d borrowed from Denny for the weekend. Dick was contemplating a move into four-wheel drive.

Lol unbuckled his seatbelt. ‘If you go any further, English Heritage’ll be down on you. It’ll be in the
Hereford Times
– “City Therapist Squashes Ancient Camp”.’

‘You may scoff. But I
do
feel it’s important to be a good citizen. We
chose
to come here – which confers responsibility.’ Dick braked and reversed into something satisfyingly deep and viscous. ‘Even to something that just looks like any other hill.’

‘You have no soul, Dick.’

Dick squinted through the mud-blotched windcreen. ‘Buggered if I’m staggering up there in this weather. What am I missing?’

‘Nice view over the city. For the rest, you need a soul.’

‘Imagination.’ Dick leaned back in the driving seat, allowing the glass to mist. ‘I have very little, thank goodness. The ancestors… Jung would have found plenty to go at, but I’ve never been particularly drawn to the idea of the collective-unconscious, race memories, all that. It
sounds
good, but… what do you think?’

‘I’m inclined to believe it. I’ve got a bit in common with Moon, I suppose.’

‘And you fancy her. Well, of course you do. Awfully sexy creature.’