Friends of the Dusk (11 page)

‘A Requiem Eucharist.’

‘
Exactly.
Either way, Requiem’s likely to work. The rector had the right idea. Best way to get shut of the ole bugger. Send him to his rest, whether it’s the image in the church or Ann’s head. Or both. Give him the full Requiem.’

Merrily nodding.

‘It involves clergy, and a church. What else would you do?’

‘The lad could’ve done it himself. His church, his responsibility. But he wanted a second opinion, and that were the right thing, too. He had the right idea, just went to the wrong man. Innes told the rector he’d deal with it himself. Which he did. He didn’t go to see Ann Evans, he simply phoned her. He phoned her that same night. He gave her his considered advice.’

Merrily sighed, her mental landscape falling into shadow.

‘Go on.’

‘Advised her to go and see her GP,’ Huw said. ‘Wi’ a view to referral to a psychiatrist.’

16

Claw

T
HE FACT THAT
the ground-floor flat was in a small block only a short walk from the Plascarreg Estate took away a whole level of mystery. From the ill-lit road outside, Bliss could point to the steel-reinforced doors of at least two dope-dealers’ dwellings.

But this was not what dope dealers did.

He got out of there as soon as he could, standing outside the doorway breathing harder than a man of his experience should ever be seen to breathe.

There’d been a small hallway, but one of its walls had been taken out so the front door opened directly into the living room, where there was enough blood for a multiple stabbing. But it wasn’t a stabbing.

Billy Grace, the Home Office Dr Death, had been and gone. Karen Dowell had been here a while with the crime-scene crew, watching everything, inspecting everybody. Karen could get possessive about crime scenes. She joined Bliss outside, pushing back the hood of her Durex suit.

‘OK, boss?’

‘Course I’m OK. We know him?’

‘We do now. But not in the way
you
mean. I don’t think we’re looking at what you might call a Plascarreg neighbour dispute.’

‘We’re not actually on the Plas, are we?’

‘These flats were here before all that was even thought of. I remember them as a kid. Quite bijou at one time but, when
something like the Plas goes up next door, your property value goes into a steep slide and it all gets a bit scruffy.’

‘Robbery?’

‘Don’t think so. But look…’

Bliss pulled in a quick breath and turned to the room. The body was face down next to a small Shaker-style table. There was a wall-mounted TV and a packed bookcase. All quite tidy in here, in fact, if you ignored the spatter, some of it so liberal that it looked like the furniture itself had been bleeding.

An investigation was assembling around the body with no sadness, only the excitement that cops had become so good at hiding from the public. An excitement, Bliss was thinking, that was only heightened by the horror. Despicable, really. He was forcing himself to look, if only so as not to come over as a wuss in front of Karen, who was famous for taking a bag of chips and a kebab into a post-mortem.

‘While I wouldn’t think robbery as a motive,’ Karen said, ‘I reckon something’s been taken. There’s a printer on the desk, see? But no computer. Where’s the computer?’

‘Somebody killed him and walked out of here with their arms full of computer?’

‘Maybe a laptop. I don’t know, I’m just speculating.’

Bliss tweaked a smile. Speculation? Was that still allowed?

‘So who is he, Karen?’

‘Tristram Greenaway. Thirty-five. Employed by the council. Lived here on his own. There was a girlfriend, but she’s said to have moved out a few weeks ago.’

‘Mind your back, Francis.’

Slim Fiddler was shooting video, trying to frame the whole room. Slim was Chief CSI. They liked to call themselves CSIs now, sounded sexier than SOCO. Before long, the ambitious bastards would be using American TV words like
exsanguination
and
directionality
. Bliss edged gratefully away from the action. Slim Fiddler hadn’t lost any weight; there were whole crime-scene teams who took up less room.

‘What’s Billy say, Karen?’

’¿…lıǝu 'ʇuɐʇsıssɐ sıɥ ʇɟǝl ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝɯıʇ ǝɯos ʞɹoʍ ɟɟo ǝq oʇ ʎlǝʞıl ˙ƃǝl ɐ ǝʞoɹq puɐ ƃuıɥʇǝɯos ɹo ɥɔuǝɹʇ ɐ oʇuı llǝɟ ʇsıƃoloǝɐɥɔɹɐ ʎʇunoɔ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎɹɐɹodɯǝʇ ʎluo ɥƃnoɥʇ ˙ʇuǝɯʇɹɐdǝp s’ʇsıƃoloǝɐɥɔɹɐ ʎʇunoɔ‘

’¿uǝɹɐʞ 'lıɔunoɔ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ qoɾ sıɥ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ‘

˙ǝʇɐıɹdoɹddɐuı ǝq ʎlʇɔɐxǝ ʇ’uplnoʍ sʇɥƃıl lnɟɹǝʍod ǝɹǝɥʍ uʍoʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd lɐıʇuǝpısǝɹ ǝuo ǝɥʇ uı 'ooʇ 'ǝɹǝɥ ʞɔɐq ƃuıʇɥƃıl ʇǝǝɹʇs dɐɹɔ ˙sɐld ǝɥʇ uo ǝɔuǝɟɟo ǝsnɐɔ oʇ pooƃ ɹǝʌǝu ˙ǝɔuǝɟɟo pǝsnɐɔ ʎǝɥʇ ǝsɐɔ uı 'ǝɔıʇou oʇ ʇou ʎɹʇ plnoʍ sɹnoqɥƃıǝu ǝɥʇ ǝldoǝd ʎq ʇı ɟo ʇsoɯ

’˙ǝɹǝɥ punoɹ ƃuıoƃ puɐ ƃuıɯoɔ ɟo ʇol ɐ sʎɐʍlɐ ˙ɹɐɟ os ʇuɐɔıɟıuƃıs ƃuıɥʇou ˙sɹoop-oʇ-ɹoop ǝɥʇ uo llıʇs ǝɹ’ǝʍ‘

’¿sɹnoqɥƃıǝu‘

’˙ʞǝǝʍ ʇsɐl ǝq oʇ ʎlǝʞılun ˙ʎlqɐqoɹd ˙ʎɐpoʇ ɹǝılɹɐǝ ˙ǝɔɐɹƃ ɹp ʍouʞ noʎ‘

’¿ǝɔuıs ƃuol ʍoɥ ˙ʇɐlds‘

’…puɐ sɐʍ ʇı ɹǝʌǝoɥʍ uo ʞɔɐq sıɥ pǝuɹnʇ 'pıɐɹɟɐ ǝq oʇ uosɐǝɹ ou ˙uı pǝʇıʌuı puɐ ʍǝuʞ ǝɥ ʎpoqǝɯos ǝq plnoɔ ¿ʎq pǝʞɔɐʇʇɐ ʇǝƃ oʇ ʇɔǝdxǝ ʇ’upıp ǝɥ ʎpoqǝɯos ¿ʞɔɐʇʇɐ ǝsıɹdɹns ɐ sıɥʇ sı ˙spɹɐʍɹǝʇɟɐ dn ƃuıʎpıʇ punoɹ ǝuoƃ s’ǝɥ ssǝlun‘ ˙pıɐs uǝɹɐʞ ’'ǝlƃƃnɹʇs ɐ ɟo suƃıs ou os‘

˙sɐld ǝɥʇ uo pǝɥsɐɯs ʇoƃ sɐɹǝɯɐɔ ˙ǝɹǝɥ punoɹ ʌʇɔɔ ɟo ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ uı ɥɔnɯ ʇou

˙ʇuɐɹɹɐʍ ƃuıpuɐʇsʇno uɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝɔɐɟ ɹnoʎ ǝzıuƃoɔǝɹ ʇɥƃıɯ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo puɐ sɐld ǝɥʇ uo sdoɔ oʇ ǝsolɔ ooʇ ʇǝƃ ˙sɹǝʞooluo ʎuɐɯ ʇou ˙sǝɥsnq pǝʇunʇs ǝɥʇ uı punoɹɐ ƃuıʞod ǝɹǝʍ sɯɹoɟıun ǝǝɹɥʇ ˙pǝɹ oʇ pǝƃuɐɥɔ slɐuƃıs ǝɥʇ sɐ pǝɥƃıs ɔıɟɟɐɹʇ punoq-ʎʇıɔ ǝɹǝɥʍ pɐoɹ uıɐɯ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ sʇɐlɟ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʇɐɹɐdǝs ssɐɹƃ ɟo dıɹʇs ǝɥʇ ssoɹɔɐ pǝʞool ǝɥ ˙ʎlʍols ǝɥʇɐǝɹq oʇ ƃuıʇɹɐʇs 'ʇno ɹǝɥ ƃuıʍolloɟ ssılq

’˙plnoʍ ǝɥ uoʞɔǝɹ ı‘

’˙ǝƃunƃ puɐ poolq uı pǝɹǝʌoɔ ǝq p’ǝɥ‘

’˙ǝɹǝɥʇ uı ʇı pǝssoʇ ǝʌ’plnoɔ ˙pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ ssoɹɔɐ 'ǝɹǝɥʇ uʍop ʎluo s’ɹǝʌıɹ ǝɥʇ 'ǝǝs‘ ˙uǝɹɐʞ 'noʎ ʞuɐɥʇ 'ƃuıʍolloɟ ssılq 'ɹoop ʇuoɹɟ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ʇno pǝʞlɐʍ uǝɹɐʞ ’…ʇı pǝssoʇ puɐ pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ ssoɹɔɐ pǝʞlɐʍ 'ƃɐq ɐ uı ʇı ʇnd ʎlqɐqoɹd‘

’¿uodɐǝʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo uƃıs ou‘ ˙sʇnƃ sıɥ uo ʞɹoʍ ʇɐ ɥɔuǝʇs ǝɥʇ 'ǝɹǝɥ ɟo ʇno ʇǝƃ oʇ ƃuıpǝǝu ˙pıɐs ssılq ’¿sʍouʞ oɥʍ‘

’˙ǝƃɐɹ ǝlqɐlloɹʇuoɔun ǝʞıl ǝɹoɯ ˙ǝɹǝɥ ʎlddɐ ʎlpɹɐɥ plnoʍ ʇɐɥʇ ʇnq‘ ˙pıɐs uǝɹɐʞ ’'ʎʇıʇuǝpı ǝɹnɔsqo oʇ ǝuop s’ʇɐɥʇ ƃuıɥʇ ɟo ʇɹos‘

˙ʎɹǝƃɐʌɐs uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ sɐʍ sıɥʇ ˙pǝʍollɐʍs 'ʎɐʍɐ pǝuɹnʇ ssılq ¿ʇǝƃƃnu uǝʞɔıɥɔ ɐ ǝʞıl pǝʞool 'ʇıq ʇɐɥʇ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'poƃ

’˙ɥǝʎ 'ɥǝʎ‘

’—ɥʇǝǝʇ ǝɥʇ puɐ 'pǝddıɹ ɥʇnoɯ puɐ ǝsou ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇno pǝsıɹd uǝǝq ʇsoɯlɐ s’ǝʎǝ ʇɥƃıɹ ǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ ǝǝs‘ ˙pıɐs ɹǝlppıɟ ɯıls ’'pǝuǝdɹɐɥs uǝʌǝ ɹo‘

’˙pǝsn llǝʍ sɐʍ puǝ ʍɐlɔ ǝɥʇ 'ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ʍɐlɔ ɐ sɐʍ ʇı ɟı‘

’˙uǝɹɐʞ 'ʇıʞlooʇ ’uıƃƃıɹɟ ɐ ɥʇıʍ uı ǝɯoɔ ɐuuoƃ ʇou s’ɹǝllıʞ‘

’˙ǝslǝ ƃuıɥʇǝɯos pɐɥ ǝɥ ssǝlun ˙ʇɐɥʇ ɟo ʇsoɯ pıp ʇɐɥʇ ʍɐlɔ ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ʇı puɐ 'looʇ ɹɐlıɯıs ǝɯos ɹo ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ʍɐlɔ ɐ ʇɐ ƃuıʞool ǝq plnoɔ ǝʍ os ˙ǝɹǝɥ ƃuıddıɹ ɟo ʇol ˙ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ʇunlq ɐ ʇsnɾ uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ s’ʇɐɥʇ puɐ 'sʞuıɥʇ ǝɔɐɹƃ ɹp 'spɹɐʍɹǝʇɟɐ ǝuop ʎlqɐqoɹd ˙ɟɟnʇs ʎssǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝsnɐɔǝq ʇunlq ʇɐɥʇ ʇou ʇnq ˙ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ɐ ǝʞıl ƃuıɥʇǝɯos ˙ƃuɐq 'ƃuɐq 'ƃuɐq ˙pɐǝɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ sʍolq ˙pǝllıʞ sɐʍ ǝɥ ʍoɥ s’ʇɐɥʇ 'ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ʇunlq ʎlsnoıʌqo 'llǝʍ‘

‘Cooper. Ran into him the other night.’

‘Tristram Greenaway seems to have been a freelance archaeologist – i.e. jobless – who’d been taken on for a few months to help Cooper until the boss comes back.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Woman in the flat above. Greenaway talked about it. We haven’t talked to Cooper yet. Vaynor’s still trying to track him down.’

Neil Cooper. The lad who had his skull nicked.

‘Perhaps
I’ll
have a word,’ Bliss said, thoughtful. ‘When he surfaces.’

Maybe this wasn’t as simple as the address would lead you to expect.

‘Tell you one thing,’ Karen said. ‘Some murders you can be dispassionate. Or, some of them, you feel nearly as sorry for the
killer as the victim. But this killer… even I don’t feel safe with him out here.’

‘Or her?’

‘No way.’ Karen fiercely shaking her head. ‘Not even a human being any more, Frannie, he’s just… lost it.’

17

Get over it

S
INCE
L
OL WAS
last home for any length of time, the council had cut back on public lighting. New shadows had grown like night foliage. The narrow street between Lucy’s old house, where he lived, and the vicarage seemed, in the hours of darkness, like a deep river. Small lights blinked on the other side, on an island between the trees.

Always something to be crossed. Ledwardine, which always looked peaceful, was a cluster of small worlds in torment, the vicarage its unresting conscience.

Like a deep river… island in the trees… worlds in torment…

Lol spun away from the window. Bloody hell, there were days when it seemed like his whole existence had been reduced to scraps of material for possible lyrics. When all he was was something that served songs.

As distinct from Merrily Watkins, who served people and also something else that could seem as distant, amorphous and unapproachable as a cold sun.

She’d phoned earlier to see if it was OK if she came over.

Like she had to
ask
. For God’s
sake
, she had her own key to the house that used to be Lucy’s house. He’d had it made for her. She used it when he was away, to come in and check everything was OK, do a little dusting, pick up his mail from behind the door to see if there was anything crucial. But when he was at home, she almost never used that key; she’d always knock when all he wanted was for her to let herself in, any time of the day or night, be presumptuous, feel free. It wasn’t as if the whole
village didn’t know. It wasn’t like anybody in Ledwardine sat in judgement or even cared.

He bent to the wood-stove in the ingle. It hadn’t been active for most of the four months he’d been away – relearning how to make a living wage out of music, a summer of small-venue and pub gigs across Britain, indoor busking for people who carried on drinking and talking. Funny how you learned not to mind this as long as the songs were out there and the pennies kept dropping into the hat, so to speak.

And then the unexpected. The warming of the distant sun. One of those half-heard songs had sneaked off quietly on its own, done some business, and was sitting waiting for him when he got back.

The song was smoking a fat cigar.

In the stove, the new flames were pale and vaporous, the kindling wouldn’t catch. He wondered if the house’s last owner was annoyed with him for spending too much time away, neglecting things, leaving her alone here and dead.

‘Lucy,’ he murmured, kneeling on the rug, messing with the vents, ‘this
will
be OK, won’t it?’

He’d really thought it was finally going to be OK. Couldn’t wait to share the news with Merrily, who’d sat there in the Swan last night, looking glittery and lovely…

… and out of it. Preoccupied. The distant sun receding.

Behind the glass of the cast-iron stove, the kindling flared, all at once, almost explosively. At the same time, he heard quick but clunky footsteps on the cobbles at the end of Church Street.

Clogs. The clogs she wore in the house?
Clack, clack
on the stone flags in the kitchen, but never before
clack, clack
across the street.

He didn’t wait for the knock. When he opened the door she was standing there like a waif in the dark, and he was sensing something on the other side of tears.

*

There’d been a big picture of this new Bishop in the Hereford Times. Large guy, fit-looking, solid and beaming. You’d have to say he looked honest, upfront, approachable.

Lol was firing the wood-stove hard. Inevitably, he was thinking of the last but one Hereford bishop, smooth, handsome Mick Hunter, who had also been approachable and fit – went running in a purple tracksuit. Please, not again, not another one.

‘God, no,’ Merrily said from the sofa. ‘Nothing at all like Hunter. Twenty years married. Six kids.’

‘
Six?
Jane know?’

The stove glass was rattling, bright orange radiance in the room. He’d switched off the lamps, for intimacy. Possibly.

Merrily salvaged a smile. She was wearing jeans and an old grey cardigan. No dog collar, no cross. Lol was calmer now. Now that he knew, more or less, what this was about. Where it was coming from and that it didn’t seem to be connected with Khan, the dealer. Only the Church.

Only.
Yeah, right. He wanted to say it was OK, she didn’t need to take any of this crap. That things had changed, they could go away… somewhere… anywhere they wanted. And they could. Anything seemed possible now.

… except neither of them wanted to. Certainly not him, after spending most of the summer fantasizing Ledwardine sunsets, Ledwardine dawns, his own bed, Merrily in it.

‘OK.’ He moved over to sit at her feet. ‘Why is he doing this?’

Why is this big, beaming bastard pissing on my picnic?

Merrily leaned forward, the stovelight in her eyes hinting at an anger which had to be better than the fog of mute desperation she’d brought in.

‘I’m sorry.’ She flopped down, her arms draped loosely over Lol’s shoulders. ‘This is really not what I’d planned. Neither tonight nor last night. Last thing I wanted was to be sitting here talking about bloody theology. I wanted you to tell me… whatever it is.’

He looked up into her eyes.

‘What?’

‘What you were going to tell me last night,’ she said. ‘Over the dinner we didn’t have?’

‘Oh…’

‘What you probably didn’t want to say in front of Jane?’

‘It wasn’t that. I can say almost anything in front of Jane. I just thought you should… Anyway, it’ll wait.’ Lol crawled away to the hearth to slip the vent, lower the flames. Wood-stoves were like women. ‘What else did Huw say?’

She told him instead how the Bishop had avoided her in the office. What Sophie had said later on the phone about the relieving of her
burden.
Lol looked up at her, shocked.

‘What does he
want
?’

‘He’s a modernizer. Represents a movement inside the Church that… I don’t know what he wants. Just what he clearly doesn’t want.’

She told him the story of a woman called Ann Evans, who believed she was being menaced by her father’s spirit and was advised by Innes to see a psychiatrist.