To Dream of the Dead (51 page)

‘Whole bunch of people up from Hereford, did the full two-mile walk across the footbridge, over the fields . . . Coach party. Someone said it was like a pilgrimage.’

‘For
this
?’

‘Bigger than you thought, mate.’

Pilgrimage
.

He recalled Jane this morning in deserted Church Street:
Well, I put it up on the Coleman’s Meadow website
. It was support for Jane, for the meadow, for the stones; he was just a focus. That made him happier.

‘And Merrily says, don’t forget, not a word,’ Barry murmured. ‘Whatever that means.’

It was the last thing she’d said to him before she’d pushed him out of the vicarage, the way Moira Cairns had pushed him on stage that terrible night at the Courtyard in Hereford, the kick-start of his solo career.
Don’t dare mention me in connection with the Boswell. Just . . . play it
.

Barry grinned.

‘We’re in profit after all. You ready, mate?’

‘Hang on—’

Lol leaned into the amp, gave it a little extra concert-hall depth, the merest hint of reverb, tapped the voice mike – too loud.

‘You want an introduction?’ Barry said. ‘I don’t really know how these things are done.’

‘I’ll just go into it,’ Lol said.

‘Good boy.’

Lol felt the first shoulder-twinge in days as Barry stepped away, lifting a hand to Eirion, and the lights went down and, on the plasma screen behind him, the first thin red slit of sunrise began to burn between the earthen ramparts on Cole Hill.

Holding the new Boswell close like a woman, he let his fingers find the only riff he figured most of them would know, from
Flicks in the Sticks
showings of ‘The Baker’s Lament’, named after this song. Lol closed his eyes, took a breath. One more time, for propulsion, and . . .

‘
The shoemaker . . . made me some shoes
. . .’

The sound low and warm and woody. A rush of applause soaking up the rain.

Merrily pulled off her cape, pushed back her hair.

The oak-panelled reception, lantern-lit heart of the New Cotswolds. No mirrors.

‘Look reasonably OK?’

‘You look fantastic,’ Jane said. ‘Now just—’

‘Just go
in
, damn you.’ James Bull-Davies blocking the door to the square. ‘Pair of you. I’ll get Parry,
we
’ll deal with this.’

‘James, look . . .’ Merrily clutching his arm. ‘I’ll cancel it. It’ll be simpler.’

‘The hell you will. My family kept that church from collapse for four centuries. Damned if I’m going to let some lunatic—’

‘We don’t
know
.’

‘Suspect list pretty damn short.’

Barry came through, rubbing his hands.

‘
Two
coachloads. Supporters of the Serpent. Sounds like some sort of secret society. Don’t normally allow walking boots in the lounge, but under these conditions, what can you say?’

‘Don’t let these Watkins women out again, Barry,’ James said as the Stookes came in behind him, shaking out an umbrella. ‘Find them ringside seats and tie them down.’ He stood over Merrily. ‘Plan to board the bottom of the window, drape something over the damaged area of the rood screen for tonight. Cover the doors with opaque plastic sheeting rather than risk damaging the wood with paint-stripper. Couple of hours max, OK?’

‘James, I’m very grateful but I’m not sure, after that level of violence and . . . malevolence, call it what you like . . . that the atmosphere’s going to be exactly conducive. I think I’d rather put it off.’

James was arching forward, peering at her under half-lowered eyelids.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, vicar, but one rather thought dealing with atmospheres was your
thing
.’

She started to laugh. And maybe he was right. There was time. Maybe.

‘James . . . have you met, erm, Leonora and Elliot—’

‘Stooke,’ Elliot Stooke said firmly, the mauve ring around his white smile. He unwound a black scarf. ‘We’re at Cole Barn.’

Well, well . . .

‘This is James Bull-Davies, Leonora. You . . . met his ancestor.’

‘How’re you?’ James said. ‘Talk later, if you don’t mind. Work to do.’

‘God.’ Leonora watched him striding out into the downpour. ‘Isn’t he so wonderfully
feudal
?’

‘Except we don’t pay tithes or whatever to the Bulls any more,’ Merrily said, ‘and he
still
feels responsible for us. I’m sorry, we’ve had a bit of trouble – nothing you wouldn’t understand, so maybe we could have a drink later. If you want to go in . . . sounds like he’s between numbers.’

Still be hard pushed to say she actually
liked
Leonora Stooke.

Lol was talking into the mike about how Lucy Devenish had introduced him to Thomas Traherne, at a time when his life was turning around and he’d just met a woman who was going to be more important to him than he ever imagined a woman could be.

Jane rolled her eyes, beaming, Merrily shutting hers, aware of a blush coming up. The Stookes went into the passage leading to the lounge and then two men emerged from it.

‘. . . Come in for a quiet drink, and we have to listen to
this
shit.’

Merrily figured County Councillor Lyndon Pierce was at least halfway drunk. He was with his client Gerry Murray, twenty years older, a fair bit heavier, the owner of Coleman’s Meadow, inherited. Pierce’s gelled black hair was slicked over his forehead. Merrily said nothing, didn’t bother smiling, hoped Jane hadn’t heard.

As if.

Jane said, ‘Why don’t you make one of your speeches instead, Mr Pierce, then they’d
really
know what shit sounded like?’

Bugger
.

‘Jane,’ Merrily said, ‘I don’t think—’

‘It’s the famous archaeologist, Gerry,’ Pierce said. ‘I hear Professor Blore was suitably impressed.’

Merrily said, ‘Jane—’

The craving for tobacco making her shiver. Couldn’t keep a limb still. What would help right now was if Barry came back. She looked across to the doorway to the passage leading to the lounge bar.

Neither Barry nor anyone else emerged. Lol began a song she didn’t recognise. Jane restrained herself commendably until Murray was halfway through the main door, Pierce following him, and then she said loudly,

‘Mum, wasn’t that Lyndon Pierce, the notoriously corrupt councillor?’

Merrily watched Pierce turn, like in slow motion, walk right up to Jane.

‘
What
did you say?’

Jane backed up a little. Maybe his breath.

‘Nothing you haven’t heard before, surely.’

‘
You
heard it, didn’t you, Gerry?’ Pierce said. ‘That gives me an independent witness when I take this girl to court.’

‘You shouldn’t’ve said that about Lol.’ Jane was blinking uncertainly. ‘He was asked to play, and a lot of people have come through the floods to see him.’

‘Well, that was another good reason to get out of there.’

‘And I’m sure they’re all glad you did, you . . .
uuuh
.’

He’d gripped her arm, hard.

‘Cocky little
bitch
—’

‘Get your—’ Merrily pushed him. He spun round in surprise and stumbled to one knee, and she dragged Jane away. ‘You’re drunk, Lyndon. Bugger off!’

She was panting in fury, trembling. Her legs felt weak and the yellow light from the lanterns hurt her eyes. She saw Pierce coming slowly to his feet, dusting off his suit trousers, then pointing a finger at Jane.

‘You won’t be laughing—’

‘I’m not laughing now.’

‘You won’t be laughing when the real truth comes out about Coleman’s Meadow.’

He turned and walked out. He didn’t look back. Lol sang about honey flowing from rocks.

Jane said, ‘What’s he talking about? Look, I’m sorry, I just
couldn’t stop myself after he said that about Lol’s music. What did he mean?’

‘He’s drunk.’

‘He
meant
something.’

‘Let’s go in. Let’s just—’

‘You go in.’ Jane had her mobile out. ‘I’m going to call Coops.’

A
NNIE
H
OWE HAD
noticed the parcels in the back of Bliss’s car.

‘Your kids?’

‘Yeh.’

‘How long were you . . .?’

‘Nine years.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Sorry? Jesus, last week it had been,
I don’t know what your problem is . . . my information is that it’s personal and domestic. But you’d better either keep it under control or seek counselling
.

Could be she was a night person, and when the sun came up the frost would form again.

Bliss drove down into the centre of Malvern. They were going in the one car to discuss strategy. He’d have cleaned the Honda up inside if he’d known she’d be wearing the near-white mac.

‘But I still think you could’ve told me,’ he said.

Even ordering him to forget the original Furneaux interview. Like, what if he’d actually done as he was told? He gave her a sideways glance. She’d had a psychological profile done on him, or what?

‘What difference would that have made?’ she said. ‘And no, I couldn’t.’

‘Or got Brent to look into it.’

‘I wanted a result, not a massage.’

‘What if I hadn’t come looking for you tonight?’

‘You had till Boxing Day.’

Bliss finally smiled, waiting for a bunch of kids firing party poppers at one another on a zebra crossing. She was right, of course. If she’d come clean he wouldn’t have believed her, he’d’ve
thought it was something she and Charlie had cooked up between them. And no way would he have gone near Andy Mumford.

‘But if we
don’t
get Furneaux tonight,’ Annie said, ‘your arrangement with Mebus—’

‘Uh-huh. No way, Annie. I’m not saying we shouldn’t make every effort to snatch the twat for something else, but I’m not breaking Mumford’s word. And, with respect,
ma
— With respect, you also need not to offend Andy Mumford, because if anybody knows the truth about your old man and what happened in the Frome Valley all those years ago . . . yeh?’

No reply; she was looking out of the side window at the statue of Elgar and the fountain all lit up in the centre of Malvern. Bliss thought Malvern looked good. The floodlit priory and the old hotel in the dip, all mellow. Closest he’d felt to Christmas spirit in . . . a long time.

Still hadn’t got a name out of her, though, for the lad who’d turned his white van over to the Mebus brothers and gone to retrieve his motor bike from the forest. He needed to give her Furneaux.

Giving him this uncertain
Do I know you?
look under the bulkhead light on the wall over his front door. It had a Christmas wreath on it, this door. Buy one, get one free at Sainsburys.

Bliss pulled off his beanie.

‘DI Bliss, Mr Furneaux. This is Detective Superintendent Howe.’

‘Francis . . . I’m so
sorry
. How nice to see you again.’

‘All right if we come in, Steve?’

‘Well, sure, but—’

‘Ta. This won’t take long.’

Steve’s sitting room had a look of second home and IKEA summer sale. Two airport-looking yellow sofas, a fitted TV. Also a surprisingly attractive Asian girl who didn’t look at all surprised at strangers walking in on Christmas Eve.

‘Get you a drink, Francis and . . . Anne, isn’t it? Think I know your father.’

‘Lorra driving to do, thanks, Steve,’ Bliss said. Howe just shook her head and Steve glanced at the girl.

‘Yasmin likes early nights, so if . . .?’

‘We certainly do not expect Yasmin to entertain us, Steve,’ Bliss said. ‘This is strictly about you, cocaine, Clem Ayling, cocaine, Hereforward, cocaine . . . Oh, and did I mention cocaine?’

At one stage, Steve actually said it.

At first, he just looked slightly huffed, a touch put-out, saying to Annie, ‘I hope you realise, Superintendent, that I’m merely on the edge of this committee. Purely an adviser.’

And then a bit later, so far up against the wall that he just had to come out with it.

‘Inevitably, if I go down, a number of people go with me. Including, of course, your father, Anne. An elected representative, a decision-maker. While I . . . am a mere adviser.’

Adviser
. This was the key word. Consultant. The government spent millions every year on fellers like Steve. Well, maybe not
quite
like Steve, although many of them would look not unlike him tonight, in his violet silk shirt and his Italian jeans.

Bliss turned to Annie, next to him on the flatter of the two sofas.

‘I said you’d like him, didn’t I, ma’am?’

He’d told Steve that they would, if necessary, search the premises and himself and Yasmin. Pointing out that, from his landing window, he might be able to make out the roof of a police car containing DC Terrence Stagg and two uniforms, one of them female. And the duty spaniel was on call. Even if he’d got rid of all the stuff, the dog would pinpoint where he
used
to stash it. Steve wasn’t daft. He knew that one white millicrumb was enough to have him banged up for Christmas and no Waitrose pudding with extra cognac.

‘It’s good here, though, isn’t it, Steve?’ Bliss said. ‘Some areas of Britain, local government tends to be under less scrutiny than others, and Herefordshire’s one of them. Right on the edge of Wales, no daily paper, hardly any local news coverage on the box. And only a bunch of sheep-shaggers to take for a ride. Perfect, eh?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. And I think you’re being rather insulting to a very beautiful part of the country and its people.’

‘
I
’m one of its people, Mr Furneaux,’ Annie Howe said. ‘And what I take offence at is patronising bureaucrats who think we’re simple country folk on whom democracy is wasted, so, hey, why bother with it?’

‘Ms Howe—’

‘Clement Ayling,’ Anne Howe said. ‘Although I didn’t actually know him on a personal level, I do know his
type
. Not averse to short cuts in the interests of putting one over on the opposition or central government. Not incapable of deceit in defence of his local authority or his party. But essentially,
not
the sort to have his drive tarmacked by the highways department. Old school. Rather straitlaced. Especially where . . . drugs are concerned.’