Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain (61 page)

‘Hanging it on the dead.’

‘Don’t they always. So Jane…?’

‘Jane thinks that if she hadn’t pursued Cornel with a view to nailing Savitch they would never have wound up in the mithraeum.’

‘And yet Cornel went tooled up. He’d lost his job, he’d been humiliated, he was at the end of his rope. He went prepared to kill somebody, and Mostyn’s the most likely candidate. From Jane’s version of what was said, it seems likely that Cornel was
hoping
Mostyn would appear. He certainly seems to have believed he’d get away with it.’

‘Yes, but what about Jane? Jane would’ve seen everything.’

‘You might want to think, in retrospect,’ Annie said, ‘that the heavy object Jane threw down might, in the end, have saved her life. Now, what were you going to tell me?’

Jane had said that instinctively she hadn’t liked the face. She hadn’t even known then whose face it was supposed to represent. She’d said that raising up the rounded shard of concrete,
she must have had her fingers in its supercilious eyes, below the remains of its cap. Jane had picked up an image of Mithras and taken him with her, away from Cornel. The kind of stupid detail that lodged in your mind and inflated itself into a crazy significance.

‘Annie, maybe you could tell me something first. Why were you asking Jane if there was a struggle for the gun between Mostyn and the man you think was Byron? Why didn’t you want it to be… an execution?’

‘It’s not that simple.’ Annie thought for a few moments. ‘All right. But not here.’

S
HE CLIMBED INTO
Annie’s Audi on the edge of the square. The shops had opened into gold bars of welcome sunlight and – even more welcome – Easter tourists.

Lol was walking up Church Street from the river, with Jane and Eirion, Merrily felt momentarily disconnected, as if this might be a mercy-dream softening the truth: dead Lol lying across from dead Barry on a mortuary trolley. Jane awakening, stiff and raw, to the memory of a night in the rape suite. Athena White was right.
It must not go on much longer, do you hear me?

Annie parked the Audi at the bottom of Old Barn Lane, half on the grass verge. Her mood was hard to read.

‘So you’re saying Savitch is in the clear?’ Merrily said.

‘You studied law. Tell me what he’s done wrong.’

‘What about Sollers Bull?’

Annie Howe stared uninterested at conical Cole Hill, straight ahead and looking almost volcanic, wreathed in smoke-ring clouds.

‘The last thing certain prominent people want is for Sollers to go down. I’d have to number my father amongst them.’

‘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.’

T
HE 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…’