Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

‘Don’t worry, I checked when you came in,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea when they’re safely away again.’

Aware that her breathing had become shallow, Jane carefully slid out the pictures. There were four of them, in cardboard frames, each one protected by tissue paper. She was going to be the first outsider to see original and almost certainly historic photos taken by Alfred Watkins himself. She could almost feel him bending over her, with his pointed beard and his glasses on the end of his nose. She shivered slightly.

‘Go on,’ Mrs Kingsley said.

The first one was a bit faded but, like all Watkins pictures, nice and sharp. Jane saw a woman she guessed to be in early middle age, but could have been younger – hard to tell, the severe way they had their hair in those days. She was dressed in a long skirt and she had a little handbag and a bashful smile. And she was standing…

… On the ley…

… The trackway even clearer then than it was now. And this…

… This was just everything Jane could have wanted: incontestable proof that the great Alfred Watkins had photographed Coleman’s Meadow.

The picture had been taken from the Cole Hill side, with the steeple of Ledwardine Church soaring above the woman’s head and the head of the man who Jane hadn’t really noticed at first. Quite an ordinary-looking elderly guy. Serious-looking, with a big white moustache, a hairy jacket and a trilby hat.

Jane thought she might’ve seen him somewhere before but… well, she hadn’t really expected to recognize him, anyway. There were two other pictures of the couple and a third taken from the other side, the old guy on his own pointing towards Cole Hill and he was kind of smiling, and he…

Hang on…

‘Gomer…?’

Jane showed the photo to Gomer.

He scrutinized the picture very carefully, holding it up to his glasses.

Then he lowered it slowly.

‘Bugger me, Janie… that’s ole wassisname, ennit?’

Black Vapour Trails

Bliss said it was nothing fancy, this one. Not some ritual-looking killing in a beauty spot that Annie Howe would take away from him for the headlines.

‘This is an old-fashioned, down-home, nasty, sordid, backstreet- I woke you up, didn’t I?’

‘I’m not in bed,’ Merrily said. ‘I just… go on.’

‘Malcolm France. Forty-six years old. Independent security adviser. Know what that means, do we?’

‘Minder?’

‘Partly. Also a private inquiry agent. Which wasn’t attracting enough business for a full-time occupation, so Mal did everything from following wives, to recommending burglar alarms on commission and guarding the rich or the famous when necessary. It was a living. It’s where a lot of us go when they kick us out.’

‘I’m sorry, Frannie. I hadn’t realized he was an ex-colleague. What happened?’

‘Not a colleague, no. I knew him, but not well – all that animosity between cops and private eyes, that’s for the story books. We keep in with them now, with an eye to the future. He was found early this afternoon, back of St Owen’s Street. Broad daylight, Merrily. Not a robbery. I hate that kind of thing. Makes me angry. A crime committed with never a thought that they aren’t going to get away with it. We think they were even on view. Two men in white coveralls – familiar sight nowadays, with all the health-and-safety regulations – were seen by a number of witnesses to walk into the building carrying a paint spray. Nobody saw them come out, which suggests that the coveralls were packed away in a case, and the fellers who came out were wearing nice suits.’

‘In Hereford?’

‘That didn’t use to happen in Hereford, did it?’ Bliss said.

Merrily heard a car pulling into the vicarage drive. The bluebottle was still making hysterical circuits of the window, or maybe it was another bluebottle. She was very tired of people buzzing her and then flying out of range.

A key turned in the front door. Thank God.

‘And did you… explain why you’re ringing me?’

‘I said it wasn’t robbery, but we think his laptop had been taken and some disks. No sign of case notes or files lying around the office, anyway. So we got permission from his family to check out his bank accounts. Discovering that, among recent payments, was one from a Ms C.W. Sparke, of Wychehill, Malvern.’

Merrily’s body jerked; the chair legs scraped the thinning carpet.

‘That’s a surprise, then, is it?’ Bliss said.

‘What was he doing for her?’

‘I don’t know. All we have is a receipt for?250, including exes.’

‘Winnie Sparke paid this man?250?’

‘Peanuts, Merrily. He’d get more than that for finding a lost dog. Most clients, it runs into thousands. Anyway, there it is. She’s among a dozen or so of his customers we’re checking out. Although it may have nothing do with his current business. However, what do you know about her?’

‘She’s a writer. From California, but she’s lived here quite a few years. Divorced.’

‘I was thinking more about her links to our friend Mr Loste, actually. She paid for his lawyer and she collected him from Worcester nick. It might be just a coincidence, but it’s interesting.’

‘She’s working on a book with Loste. He’s probably very important to her career at this stage.’

‘Any indication she might not trust him, might want him checked out?’

‘It’s possible, but unlikely. She told me stuff about his origins that she might not have… I don’t know, Frannie, that’s the truth. I mean… Loste? Even you ’re thinking Loste? Knifes a man on the Beacon and then… You did say this was a shooting?’

‘Head and chest. Pistol. Looks like the gun got completely emptied into him – more enthusiastic than efficient.’

‘I saw Loste go into the church, late morning. That rule him out?’

‘Hard to say yet. You going back to Wychehill tonight?’

‘Hope not.’

‘Only, there’ll be some uniforms keeping tabs on tonight’s young persons’ social event, at the Royal Oak. You haven’t seen the TV?’

‘Haven’t seen anything.’

‘Me neither, but it seems there’s trouble following press and TV items with a bloke called Holliday who reckons inner-city trash elements have turned his village into an apocalyptic battlefield. Mr Holliday’s now saying that he’s received personal threats.’

‘From whom?’

‘From anonymous supporters of the Royal Oak, presumably. It’s not significant enough to worry us, but I thought I’d pass it on.’

Merrily turned at a shadow and saw Lol in the scullery doorway. They had one another’s keys now.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘If I come across anything-’

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s possible that Mal’s murder is linked to his former occupation, in which case I’ll probably be sidelined again. Look, I’ve gorra go-’

‘What was his former occupation?’

‘Like a number of local security advisers in this general area who weren’t formerly in the police, until six years ago, he was a serving soldier.’

‘In… Hereford?’

‘Thereabouts,’ Bliss said.

It was clear that Lol had a lot to tell Merrily, but there were things that needed to be dealt with first. Fears racing like black vapour trails across an already darkening sky.

Before she could think about any of it, there was Jane to deal with.

‘Jane’s with Gomer,’ Lol said. ‘They’ve gone to check out some details about the history of Coleman’s Meadow.’

‘She’s OK, though?’

‘She’s fine. She’s with Gomer.’

‘And under the circumstances, that ’s OK? I mean, Gomer has no axe to grind here.’

‘I… I’m pretty sure it’s OK.’