Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

The phone started ringing. Merrily rose.

‘There is something I don’t know, isn’t there?’

‘Well, obviously, there must be lots of things, Mum,’ Jane said. ‘But I can’t imagine anything that would cause you a particular problem.’

‘When did you ever?’

As soon as Merrily heard Spicer’s voice on the phone, flat and neutral as underlay, it came to her how much she didn’t want to go back there.

‘You had a good night, then,’ he said.

‘I had a bloody awful night. But how would you know?’

The time for civility was long gone. It was clear that Wychehill – whatever Wychehill was – needed help, the element of nervous dysfunction quiveringly obvious. And, as Lol had said when she’d rung to tell him about last night, it was surely time that Spicer did something about it, rather than some outsider. Of course, that could just have been Lol not wanting her to go back either.

‘I’m glad you went,’ Spicer said.

‘You were told to call me off, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah, but I couldn’t reach you, could I?’

‘Of course you could.’

‘Sure.’

‘Who told you to call me off?’

‘Preston.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s just a funny bloke. Proprietorial. His family goes back. I mean, really goes back – Norman times. I’m not saying he doesn’t like outsiders, exactly – the guy’s running upmarket holiday accommodation on his farm – but he likes to be in control. And people in Wychehill like him to be in control. They’re all outsiders and they like to buy into the history. Even Holliday.’

‘So Holliday was firing Devereaux’s bullets?’

‘Holliday would’ve run with Elgar’s ghost, all the way to the News of the World , even if he doesn’t believe a word of it. Maybe because he doesn’t believe a word. I can understand Devereaux not wanting that – I wouldn’t want it.’

‘But you weren’t there last night.’

‘No point. It was a stitch-up. But like I say, I’m glad you went. It worked out. A requiem will be spot-on. Everybody happy.’

‘Why do I feel I ’ve been stitched up?’

‘Trust me, it’s the best thing. Devereaux respects you now. That counts.’

‘What about Stella Cobham?’

‘Oh, he isn’t gonna forget that, is he? She came close to making a fool of him.’

‘And what’s your feeling now about … what we’re dealing with?’

‘Don’t matter what my feelings are. What are yours?’

‘It’s impressive. But if there’s going to be a requiem, maybe you should do it.’

‘ No .’

Startled by the force of Spicer’s response, Merrily said nothing.

‘It’s not my thing. All right? I can get you the names and addresses of the dead kids’ parents. Been in touch with the priest handling the joint funeral in Cookman’s parish. I can make the arrangements – all you have to do is show up.’

‘This coming Sunday? Evening?’

‘Why not? Thank you, Merrily.’ A long expulsion of breath; he was smoking. ‘I hear you were up on the hill last night.’

She was getting used to how long it took him to get around to crucial issues.

‘All it was … a CID man I know was in charge up there. He thought I might be able to help. He was wrong.’

‘Why’d he think that, Merrily?’

‘Because it looked as if there was a ritual element to it.’

‘Nah,’ Spicer said. ‘It’s urban business, innit?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was a bouncer. At the Oak.’

‘I didn’t know that. Syd…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Are there still serious drugs coming out of there, in quantity?’

‘That what your pal thinks?’

‘Not my place. But I did hear something about Preston Devereaux’s boy. Not Hugo, the other one.’

‘Louis. He’s about twenty-three now. What did you hear?’

‘That he’d gone off the rails after the hunt ban.’

‘Yeah, that’s true. Youngest-ever master of the East Malvern hunt. Lived for it, totally. Ban came in, he had a breakdown, of sorts. Like his life had been cut off at the roots.’

‘But his father … moved on?’

‘As he likes to say. Yeah, he sold the horses. All the other hunts, with the tacit approval of the gutless wankers in the Cabinet, are doing pretend drag hunts where foxes just accidentally get killed. Preston’s too proud.’

‘So when he says, you move on …’

‘He means, you move on, disguising your rage and loathing. Don’t give them the satisfaction.’

‘And does that also explain his attitude to the Royal Oak?’

‘You’re doing very well, Merrily,’ Spicer said. ‘It usually takes outsiders years to acquire that level of local understanding.’

‘I live in a village.’

‘He’s right,’ Bliss said. ‘Roman Wicklow. A hard-boy.’

He wouldn’t talk on the phone, so it was back to that same table in the Cathedral cloisters. Outside, it was an all-too-typical midsummer morning: small, white sun crowded by sour clouds, not very warm.

‘His form includes ABH, malicious wounding and possession of Class A. Bromsgrove’s his old playground, so they’ll be looking there.’

‘They? Not you?’

‘Mr One-night-stand, me.’ No doughnut this time, Bliss was drinking black coffee. ‘Left to meself, I’d be roasting Raji on a slow spit. But when you’re off the case, you’re off the case.’

‘Annie Howe’s taken over?’

‘Since first light. Legitimately. It’s a Worcester thing now, from all angles.’

‘But you’re still interested?’

‘In an academic way.’

‘I bet.’

‘I managed to…’ Bliss sipped his coffee, winced, added sugar. ‘Before they broke the news, we had another word with two of the little scallies who found the remains. Thirteen-year-olds sharing a six-pack of Fosters, so a little mild pressure was permissible. Finally admitted this wasn’t the first time they’d seen Roman up the Beacon.’

‘Birdwatching?’

‘Mr Khan was terribly shocked. Assuring me he’d have fired Roman at once if he’d so much as suspected. And, you know, strange thing, I think he was shocked. Mr Wicklow dealing on the Beacon? Handful of rocks and a few piffling grams?’

‘You think he really didn’t know?’

‘That kind of trade would be far too trivial for Raji, not to mention dangerously close to home. Yeh, I believe him when he says he’d have had Wicklow’s balls if he’d found out. Wicklow was freelancing. Probably made the arrangements in the pubs in Great Malvern, then met the clients in the fresh air, with those wonderful, far-reaching views of anybody approaching and a nice cave to shelter in.’

‘Therefore Khan’s not involved?’

‘Oh, I never said that.’ Bliss looked down into his coffee, lowered his voice. ‘If he’d found out that one of his people was operating on the side and figured it was time an example was made of someone foolish enough to abuse his position … well, that just might explain why the goody bag was left at the scene.’

‘ He had Wicklow killed?’

Bliss smiled. ‘Try and prove it.’

Merrily leaned back. A stray blade of wan sunlight tinted an edge of the Bishop’s lawn. Another world.

‘So ritual murder’s definitely ruled out?’

‘It was never really ruled in. Also, Doc McEwen’s knocked down his own theory that it would’ve taken several people. Wound on the back of the head now suggests that Wicklow was clobbered first and then dragged to the stone before his throat was cut. Assuming an element of surprise, one person could have done that.’

‘And it wouldn’t have taken long, I suppose?’