Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

‘In custody?’

‘In a manner of speaking, although he won’t be signing a confession. What happened, two mates of Smith’s, encouraged by a modest reward and considerably emboldened, no doubt, by news of Roman Wicklow’s death, have now come forward to say that they saw Mr Smith leaving a nightclub in Worcester on the night of the killing, in the company of Mr Wicklow. Mr Wicklow being, as we’ve learned, a man who inspired considerable fear in his community.’

‘Wicklow murdered Smith?’

‘It begins to look like it.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘Apparently we do not, at this stage. But it’s usually a simple territorial dispute.’

‘So if they were both dealers and Wicklow was working for Khan, who was Smith working for?’

‘ Dunno. It was part-time with Smith, he had a day job in an abattoir. Maybe he was also working for Khan. These situations get complicated. Maybe Smith had been unreliable and Wicklow was assigned to take him out. We don’t know, Merrily, that’s the honest answer.’

‘But Loste is off the hook.’

‘’ Course he isn’t. They just had to let him go for the moment. No DNA pointers, and the CPS advised that there was insufficient evidence to support a murder charge.’

‘So they could have him in again?’

‘He’s a big lad, Merrily, and clearly three sheets in the wind.’

‘But surely the idea of a former music teacher killing a man who’s now emerging as a cold and practised assassin…’

‘Look,’ Bliss said, ‘I agree with you. Like I said, I think it’s drug-related and even though there’s evidence of Loste trading with Wicklow on the Beacon, if it was me I’d be looking to talk to the friends of Mr Smith – the ones we don’t know about yet. And Raji, naturally. But it’s not me, it’s Annie Howe, and Howe’s still keen on Mr Loste. On the points scale, one nice, educated, upper-middle-class killer is worth at least five street urchins.’

Surprisingly, Winnie Sparke came out of the church. Alone, but it was a start.

Merrily guided her to Longworth’s tomb under the Angel of the Agony. Winnie seemed uneasy about this, glancing up a couple of times before perching on the edge of a step. The Angel’s half-spread wings were shielding them against the sun, but in a predatory way.

The hell with him. Merrily sat down and leaned a shoulder into the lower folds of his marble robe.

‘Sometimes this job can be quite damaging to your faith, Winnie.’

‘I don’t care for faith. Faith is intellectually lazy.’

‘OK, skip the theological debate.’

‘It’s your show.’

‘Until I ask you something you don’t want to answer.’

Winnie shrugged. The organ started up again, something that Merrily half recognized. Not Elgar, too clipped, like fine topiary. Bach?

‘Bottom line, here?’ Winnie said.

‘Bottom line is the ghost of Edward Elgar. It’s the only reason I’m here, and I’ve wasted enough time on it. And I’m fed up with being circuitous. Did Tim make it up, or did he, in some way, conjure it up? Is he disturbed, sick or just a drunk?’

‘You want me to place a tick against one of the above?’

‘Or if a fourth possibility got missed out along the way…’

‘And what if I was to tell you…’ Winnie looked down into her lap ‘… that I didn’t know?’

‘I thought you’d at least have an opinion, all the esoteric subjects I assume you’ve studied.’

‘In order to write books, it helps to study.’

‘Is that still what you do?’

‘It’s an income. Not a good one. Better in the States. Life is more expensive here, and Mind, Body, Spirit books don’t sell so many.’

‘Are you doing a book on this?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Is that why you’re playing it close to the chest?’

Winnie didn’t answer.

Merrily said, ‘I don’t write books. Sometimes I have to make reports, but they’re internal. Say, for the Bishop, or as a safeguard against comebacks, or background notes for my successor in the job.’

‘This may be the book I get remembered for,’ Winnie said.

‘Not just another New Age paperback.’

‘No. I came over ten years ago on account of an English guy who was… who proved to be not Mr Right. Not even Mr Halfway Right. Couple years ago, I realized that if I was to stay – and I kind of like it here – I needed a project that would turn over some bigger money. I conceived the idea of a book that would explore the spiritual roots of musical creativity, through Elgar and the Malverns. I have a degree in ancient history and anthropology, although I knew I was gonna need some help with the music.’

‘You had a new angle on this?’

‘I visited here, found Longworth’s church and also this cottage that was proving hard to shift off the agent’s books on account it was too small and the quarrying had left no place to extend and it was dangerous for kids and stuff like that. I could afford to buy, if I sold my apartment in London, which was what I did. And then, at a conference on Elgar at the Abbey Hotel in Malvern, I met Tim.’

‘Someone who could help you with the music.’

‘More than that. A whole lot more. Tim grew up in Sussex, near Elgar’s home there, Brinkwells. He’d always felt there was something between him and Elgar that was… going someplace.’

‘Creatively?’

‘Creatively, yes. Which basically was how he wound up in Malvern. In most other areas, around this time, I should tell you, his life was a mess. He’d split with his girlfriend, he was starting to drink too much and he was pretty close to getting fired from his job at the college.’

‘When was this?’

‘This would be just over a year ago.’

‘So you and Tim…’

‘Began to work together. To get this out of the way, I need to tell you that there’s no physical relationship. Situation was, there was someone else in my life at the time.’

‘Preston Devereaux?’

‘Stop.’ Winnie’s expression didn’t alter.

‘Don’t go there?’

‘On no account.’

‘OK.’

‘Tim’s parents live in France, and he was closest to his grandmother. When she died, he inherited a substantial sum of money. By this time, I’d researched the situation here, pertaining to this gentleman.’ Winnie gently tapped the tomb. ‘I drew Tim’s attention to a house that’d come on the market in Wychehill.’

‘Caractacus.’

‘It seemed too perfect. It’s an ugly house, but it’s in the right place, and I… I should’ve explained that Tim’s primary problem was an inability to reach the heights as a composer. He’d always written music, his knowledge and his technique were never in doubt. He taught with flair and sympathy. His original work was… of a standard. There was a barrier between him and… what I call the sublime. The fact that he could never get beyond that caused him intense emotional pain.’

‘But he bought the house…’

‘He didn’t want to know about the house. He didn’t want to see me. I gave up on him. A week later, he swallowed a bottle of pills with most of a bottle of whisky, walked out in the street and collapsed. I didn’t know about this, I’d been down in London, tying up the ends of my divorce and seeing friends. I didn’t know how close he came to death. I didn’t know anything about it until he showed up at my door, couple of weeks later, and said he’d had a dream, while they were fighting to save him in the hospital. Like The Dream of Gerontius. You listened to all of that yet?’

‘Twice. In my uneducated way.’

‘Gerontius dies. He’s an old man, not a young man like Tim, but no matter. Gerontius either dies or he’s in a deep coma. Whatever, he sheds the body load and loses the weight of his pain. And he meets with his guardian angel.’