‘You’ll have seen how he works with students.’
‘Points out how they’ve got it all wrong,’ Eirion said. ‘Throwing away what they thought was rubbish and it’s actually a tiny piece of Roman mosaic.’
‘Like that, yeah.’
Bill Blore had let her ramble on for several minutes about leys and earth mysteries and the incredible moment of illumination she’d experienced on the top of Cole Hill. And then he’d gone,
Thanks, Jane
, and turned to the students, a camera following him.
Interesting, eh?
Blore had said.
This, you see, is how myths are
created. A youngster comes to the right conclusions . . . for all the wrong reasons. Ley lines. Gawd help us
.
Then turning back to Jane, smiling kindly.
All the same, we’re grateful to you. What are you going to do next? University?
And Jane had gone,
Maybe . . . hopefully, archaeology
. Probably blushing a bit.
One of the students had smirked.
Bill, is there a degree course in ley lines now? Which university would that be at?
Jane wanting to deck the bastard, who was only about a year older than her, probably Eirion’s age, and so grateful when Bill Blore immediately turned on him.
George, you are so fucking ignorant!
Bill said
fuck
a lot on TV, like Gordon Ramsey. Like it was part of his contract to get one in every couple of minutes. But the student still backed off, red-faced, going,
Sorry, Bill
.
And Blore had gone after him.
So you should be, George
. And then, with a barely perceptible snigger clotting in his throat, he said,
Have you never
heard
of the University of Middle Earth?
There was about half a trembling second of hollow silence . . . before this explosion of laughter, probably shattering enough to distort the soundtrack.
Everyone, including Bill Blore, stepping away. Jane becoming aware that she was on her own, encircled by it. The laughter. Which had been hissing between her ears like some foul tinnitus ever since.
‘The bastard,’ Eirion said.
‘And you know what was worst of all? Because it was him . . . because it was Bill Blore who’d said it . . . I was laughing, too.’
Laughing in desperation, through the tears gathering in her eyes, the way they were gathering now.
It hadn’t even ended there. Bill Blore, still on camera, had given the students a short lecture about the danger of damaging the credibility of their profession by allowing the core disciplines of archaeology to be undermined by fashionable fads and the drivel spouted by gullible New Age cranks determined to prove spurious links between ancient civilisations and all kinds of
sad psychic shit
.
The last thing archaeology needed, Bill Blore said – glancing with this kind of cold
affection
at Jane – was a following of cranks . . . however cute they might appear.
Remember that
.
All the time, the other camera focusing implacably on Jane, like some gleaming evil eye, and there was nowhere to hide.
When it was over, and the cameras were switched off, Bill Blore had seemed so much more relaxed. Loosened up, smiling at people. Finally, moseying over to Jane, looking down benignly, squeezing her arm.
Well done, girlie
.
Patting her once on the shoulder before strolling away, followed by his entourage, like some high-powered surgeon in a crap hospital drama who’d just saved somebody’s life against impossible odds.
Wicked stuff, Bill
, the director guy had murmured, within Jane’s hearing.
And all done in one take
.
Jane followed the lamp into the orchard. Still some old frost-rotted apples lying on the ground, winter rations for the blackbirds
‘Girlie?’ Eirion called after her. ‘He called you
girlie
?’
Coops had been sympathetic, of course. He’d said Blore was a shit anyway, everybody knew that, and when you caught a shit on a bad day you just put it down to experience, wiped it out of your head. Coops just hadn’t realised, and she hadn’t even told him what she was now trying to explain to Eirion.
‘This is going on TV, right?’
‘Well, it . . . I mean
Trench One
. . .’ Eirion shuffling about, trying to make it better. ‘It hasn’t got a really
big
audience.’
Even he hadn’t quite put it together.
‘But what it
has
got . . .’ Jane’s throat was parched ‘. . . is an audience of archaeologists? Almost certainly including professors of archaeology at, like,
universities
?’
‘Oh,’ Eirion said.
‘Are they going to forget the gullible, airy-fairy, cranky girl who got lucky against all the rules? Ever?’
‘They’ll probably just . . . feel sorry for you,’ Eirion said.
‘Yeah, right, you put your finger on it there, Irene. They’ll feel sorry for me.’ Jane rocked back against a rotting stump. ‘Are you
kidding
? They’ll
despise
me. Totally. Terminally. I’m finished with archaeology before I even started.’
She was feeling physically sick. The humiliation would go on reverberating down a corridor as long as the rest of her life.
The Atheist is a Prodigious miracle in
this world, a walking carcase in the
Land of the Living
. . .
Thomas Traherne
The Fourth Century
.
L
IFE ALWAYS SPEEDED
up before Christmas. Not yet dawn, but the top end of the secret bypass was already a red river of tail lights.
Bliss could remember when all this used to be country, but good flat land didn’t stay green-belt for long. North-west of the city, a mesh of unexplained roads had appeared. No signposts, but what it amounted to was another unpublicised back way round the city, and housing had sprouted around it like pink fungi.
These were the more expensive properties, detached and set back from the road but still built too close together, with shared driveways. Bliss and the van parked round the corner.
As they walked up the drive, a landing light came on in a central upstairs window. Soft red walls, a glimmering in the bubble glass in the front door, and you knew all the radiators would be coming on, and those reassuring standby lights in the big, tidy kitchen.
Bliss thought of his own cold, messed-up kitchen, the heating clock he’d never had to master before. He wiped his mind, like with a wet cloth, and pulled himself into the situation.
Dawn raid. The
go go go
stuff. Coppers in face-shield headgear like international cricketers. The front door splintering under the enforcer.
Police! Police! Police!
Like the FBI without the weaponry.
Some part of Bliss would have quite liked all that. Meanwhile, in the real world . . .
Under his porch light, Mr Banks-Jones, up surprisingly early after last night’s party over at Tupsley, was struggling with the Sunday papers, a too-thick bundle rammed into a too-thin letter box. Clearly unable to pull them through from the inside, he’d come out.
‘Idiots. Nobody takes
any
care at all any more. Look at the way
the
Observer
’s torn all the way—’ He looked over his shoulder, exasperated, then quickly straightened up. ‘Oh. I’m so sorry, I thought you were my neighbour.’
‘West Mercia Police, sir,’ Bliss said. ‘Are you Gyles Banks-Jones?’
One of the uniforms was already round the back, on the off chance that Mrs Banks-Jones was on her way down a drainpipe with a carrier bag full of recreational drugs. Gyles stood there in the rain, in his dressing gown, a thin, studious-looking guy in early middle age.
‘Oh, lord. I knew this would happen one day. But . . . Christmas?’
‘Life is unfair, Mr Jones,’ Bliss said. ‘All right if we pop inside?’
‘Look . . . I’ve got two young children.’
‘Snap. DI Francis Bliss, my name, and this is DC Wintle, who attended the same party as you last night. Undercover.’
‘How do you do. I, ah . . .’ Gyles Banks-Jones swallowed, moistened his lips. ‘Any chance we can be civilised about this?’
It wasn’t a lot, really. Bliss wasn’t well-up on current street prices, but he reckoned no more than about six grand. Plastic bags in the velvet linings of jewel boxes stacked in Gyles’s workshop extension, back of the house.
He’d showed them where to look, then had sat down next to his wife on the sofa downstairs. His kids had slept through it all.
Now, in the interview room. Gyles, gardening fleece over his denim shirt, was telling Bliss that while it wasn’t all for personal use, he would certainly object very strongly to being called
a dealer
.
‘If it’s just for your friends,’ Bliss said, George Wintle silent at his side, ‘you seem to have quite a wide social circle.’
‘Inspector Bliss,’ the solicitor said, ‘I believe my client has told you—’
‘And I don’t believe him, Mr Bilton,’ Bliss said.
The solicitor looked about nineteen. Glasses, puppy fat, new briefcase and an earring. He’d materialised unusually rapidly for a Sunday morning; even so, Gyles Banks-Jones was in a fairly frayed state by then. As anyone would be, exposed to the smelly street-scrapings occupying the neighbouring cells two days short of Christmas.
‘Mr Bliss,’ Gyles said, ‘I realise that the law of the land obliges you to regard me as a common criminal, but society—’
‘Please do
not
give me
society
, Gyles. You can help me, or you can be difficult . . . with whatever effect that may have on the length of your sentence.’
‘Now that’s ridiculous. Do you think I’m naive? I watch the news, I read the papers. Nobody goes to prison these days for a first offence of . . . of this nature. The prisons are overcrowded. Everybody knows that.’ Gyles flashing an imploring glance at his solicitor, but the solicitor pretended he was searching for something in his case. Bliss – leaning back, hands behind his head – let the silence inflate like a breath-test kit, and then he yawned.
‘Gyles. Little toe-rags from one-parent families, with only five convictions for TWOC and crack by the age of seventeen –
they
don’t go to prison, on account of the System says we have to give them a chance to turn their little lives around. Respectable, middle-class, liberal-minded gentlemen with good incomes, however, who sadly fall from grace just the once . . .’ Bliss dropped his hands, sat up hard. ‘
Bang!
That was your cell door, Gyles. I’d say five months.’
Enjoying this now. The day having totally turned around when they were leaving Gyles’s place in daylight and he’d looked up at a window of the house across the double drive, and seen a face peering out.
Gyles looked at his solicitor, who clicked his case shut and set it down beside his chair.
‘How do you collect the coke?’ Bliss said.
‘They . . . bring it to my shop. In cardboard boxes. Cardboard boxes I’ve given them. As if it’s supplies from a wholesaler.’
Banks-Jones’s had turned out to be the jewellers – oh, the irony of it – from whom they’d bought Kirsty’s engagement ring. Gyles’s dad had run the shop, back then.
‘And when you say
they
. . .?’
No answer. For the first time, Bliss smelled fear. There was a particular person here that Gyles really did not want to finger. Someone who very much knew where he lived.
‘How was it sourced, Gyles? Take me back. How’d you make the first contact?’
‘I . . . I teach at the art college, one day a week. Jewellery. Someone I met there . . . I
can’t
—’ Gyles shook his head as though
he’d just woken up. ‘I can’t do this. I have to
live
in this city. These people are not criminals.’
‘Who aren’t?’
‘Certainly none of the people at last night’s party. Or the person who introduced me to . . . to . . .’
‘. . . To the real criminals?’
‘We keep them at very much arm’s length. None of us can be seen to . . . We’re all either self-employed, with all the stress
that
involves these days, or with taxing jobs. We’re not . . .
lowlife
. It’s about relaxation, unwinding . . .
recovery
space.’
Bliss said, ‘You’re a twat, Gyles. You know that?’
‘Do you know what some of these people are
like
?’
‘Jes—Of
course
I know what these people are like. On which basis, I’d far rather put them away than you. So let’s start again, shall we? Play your cards right, you could be home for Christmas dinner – which I’d guess tastes better from a nice plate rather than one of them tin trays with little compartments. So let’s talk about the friends and neighbours whose senses you help to stimulate. Would that include the man next door, by any chance?’
‘Why can’t you just charge me and—?’
‘Let you go round and warn everybody? Please, Gyles, don’t insult my intelligence. You know what I’m after.’
‘Look . . . I keep my distance. I don’t try to get to know them. And if I’d known what sort of people they were, I would never have—’
‘How
do
you know what sort of people they are?’
‘I know where they live. Roughly.’
‘Let me take a wild guess – the Plascarreg? Don’t worry, I gather nobody can get out of there today, with the Belmont roundabout only open for canoes.’
‘This is unbearable,’ Gyles Banks-Jones said. ‘This is an absolute nightmare.’
P
AGANISM WAS ALL
over this church: glistening in the holly on the sills, glowing dully in the red apple held by Eve in a window that was more about orchard fertility than original sin.
Merrily paused, looking down into the central aisle, meeting nobody’s eyes. She had some lights on, high in the rafters over the nave, and a couple of spots.
Say it
.