Phil Rickman - The Cold Calling

Falconer emerging from the wood into the field where Jed Balkin’s Mump swells like a boil .

‘It’s surely naive to deny the extent to which the religous beliefs and rituals of our remote ancestors were linked to violent death.’

Sound of hunting horn and shots of traditional hunt, red-coated men and women and yelping hounds .

‘The ritual aspects of the hunt, as practised by some of Britain’s oldest families, are inescapable. This is still the most dynamic example of a flow of real energy through the landscape.’

Cut to group of huntsmen. ‘Oh yes.’ An old guy with huge sidewhiskers. ‘There’s no doubt about it. The chase absolutely takes one over. I never feel more alive. Indeed, at the height of the chase, one feels … immortal. Godlike, I suppose. All I know is that when I can’t hunt, it’ll be time — ha ha — to put me in the ground.’

The old huntsman clambering onto his horse. Falconer’s voice-over .

‘So which is closest to the earth. This man? Or this woman?’

Cut to shot of flaxen-haired beauty in a cloak and headband sitting in Lotus position at the foot of a standing stone .

Cut back to Falconer, his back to a church wall, the tower rearing behind his head .

‘There’s now a body of opinion which maintains that, psychologically and sociologically, we took a wrong turning when we abandoned the spear and the bow for the plough. When we ceased to be hunter-gatherers and became farmers. Out of agriculture came urban life, a cauldron of constantly recycled energy. Out of urban life was born stress, frustration, crime, domestic violence. What we like to call civilization. Was this the Fall of Man? It’s an issue we’ll be debating in the studio in next week’s edition of Diggers. Join us then.’

Credits roll. A University of the Earth production for Channel Four .

Silence.

Cindy switched off the set.

‘Well.’ Marcus sat up. ‘No wonder he was guest of honour at the bloody Hunt Ball.’

‘Interesting, isn’t it, my loves?’

‘Notice he said “the original Green Man”. Not a million miles from the real Green Man.’

‘Some of the phrases are almost the same,’ Maiden said. ‘That about red and green. Of course, the Green Man may simply have seen that programme. Television puts ideas into people’s heads. This guy sees that programme, a week later he thinks it’s his own concept.’

Cindy slid the videotape into its sleeve. ‘The programme was transmitted, as far as I can make out, last July. The letter was received by Crucible nearly a year ago.’

‘Could have been the other way round, then. Falconer saw the letter. It fitted the angle he was after, so he developed the idea for his programme. Academics are terrible magpies, isn’t that right, Marcus?’

‘Vultures.’

‘It wasn’t printed, Bobby.’

‘Maybe somebody else printed it.’

‘Possibly,’ Cindy conceded.

‘The other alternative,’ Marcus said, expressionless, ‘is that Falconer wrote the letter himself. Why he’d do that, I don’t know. Maybe he was fishing for reaction.’

‘Well.’ Maiden stood up. ‘Why don’t we go and ask him?’

‘Yes. Get you out of the house, wouldn’t it, lovely?’

‘Why not?’ Marcus was on his feet. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t miss this for-’

‘I don’t think so,’ Cindy said. ‘I’d hate you to get over-emotional.’

‘Listen, Lewis, the bastard has some explaining to do. If there’s any basis to your crackpot theory, at the very least he’s going to have an idea of the kind of person stupid enough to be influenced by his ideas about the bloodlust of Neolithic man. Right?’

‘But at best,’ Maiden said, ‘all it does is link the letter-writer to the programme. The rest is conjecture. You’re both, in your separate ways, too close to this. I’ll go.’

‘Under what pretext, Maiden? As a copper? Or as the most wanted man in Britain, possibly unstable?’

‘I’ll have thought of something by the time I get there.’

‘You be very careful, Bobby …’ Cindy’s eyes were hooded, watchful. ‘In some ways, you are closer to this than either of us.’

She could picture the wounds all too clearly, and it didn’t make her feel sick, just angry as hell. She was supposed to sleep now? Go on up to bed, get in six hours, awake refreshed for the Saturday slaughterhouse shift?

Oh, aye, the perfect sedative: two people you’d got fond of, and the police were saying one had killed the other and they needed to put him away for his own good, and the hunt was on, nationwide.

Marcus had said no, absolutely not, no way was Bobby Maiden a murderer, which, naturally, he would. Clearly wanting to get her off the line. Which suggested Bobby was with him or he knew where Bobby was. And she ought to go down there, not least because the whole scenario had started to unroll under her own hands in A and E that day at 2.37 a.m. But even getting to the phone box had felt as public as the first bloody moonwalk.

Andy kept looking out of the window for strange cars in the street, but it wouldn’t be that obvious.

Sat down, with a fresh pot of tea. Closed her eyes, and there was Emma Curtis, a nice girl, a great girl, face up on some mortuary slab. She set down the cup and saucer, stood up and paced. If it wasn’t Bobby, then who?

If the bastard’s saying that, it’s a put-up job , Marcus said.

To put Bobby in the frame? Somebody killed her to hang it on Bobby, protect themselves? Some big, megalomaniac copper had it done? Did such things really happen? Jesus God, it made your head swell just to think about it. Made you want to drive down to Police HQ and accuse Riggs, very loudly, very publicly, of being bent as a coathanger. Pull the lid off the can of worms and hope the worms had wriggled all over town by the time they took you away. Get it in the Elham Messenger .

Sure. Two paragraphs, bottom of page nine. NURSE CHARGED WITH PUBLIC ORDER OFFENCES.

Jesus God, there had to be something she could do.

There was only one V. Clutton in the Elham phone book. There was no answer. After a few minutes, Andy decided to go and see Tony Parker.

They came out of Tewkesbury, in Gloucestershire, headed for the Cotswolds, the countryside looking milder, more ordered. Around twelve-thirty, Adrian suggested they grab some lunch.

‘Can we afford to stop for lunch? Will we make it in time?’

‘ Loads of time,’ Adrian said. ‘Oh, but then, you wouldn’t know, would you?’

‘Huh?’

‘Matthew rang last night. They’ve decided to put off the ceremony until late afternoon, early evening. The Rollrights are open to the public, so they realized they were going to have quite a few unwanted guests — tourists, people like that. It is Saturday, after all. Anyway, Matt thought it would be a better atmosphere if they waited till dusk. Candles and lanterns and all that. Frightfully romantic.’

‘Right.’ Grayle was dubious. It was a dull day, but not too cold; an evening wedding would be, well … atmospheric. In a sinister kind of way. ‘You think that is a romantic setting? The Rollright Stones?’

‘You don’t?’

‘Well … maybe it just wasn’t a nice day when I went there. Seemed kind of a forbidding place. Which was odd, I guess, when you think how close it is to the road and all. It seemed, I dunno, kind of mean. The way the stones are like curly and notched and knobbly.’

She snatched a glance at Adrian to gauge his reaction. Saw a look of concern on his young-officer’s face. He said, ‘You really didn’t care for it?’