Phil Rickman - The Secrets of Pain

‘And that’s it, is it?’

‘I knowed you wouldn’t understand.’

Bliss felt his mood darken.

‘Goldie, that earns you no points at all. And you’re out of time, so let’s go back to the old lady. Here’s the bottom line. If the killing of Maria and Ileana Marinescu is linked to what happened to Granny Wise, and the killers were to find out exactly why-’

‘You’re bloody mad, you are!’

‘… why those girls were forced to target old ladies in a hitherto safe city… if, by some unfortunate leakage of investigative data, they were to find who was running the Marinescus… they – or their mates – might think there was unfinished business, Goldie. You know what I mean?’

Goldie’s wicker chair creaked in a fragile way.

‘You’re an damned evil bastard, you are, Mr Francis.’

‘Yeh,’ Bliss said. ‘And the wairst of it is, from your point of view… I might soon be departing this division, so I have absolutely no reason to look after you any more.’

The light in the church was dusty brown, a muffled sunglow in the chancel. This early, it always felt like some ornate derelict cinema.

Merrily had washed and dressed, very basically. A couple of hours before she’d need to get ready for the Maundy service. No sign of Jane yet, so she’d fed Ethel and run across the road to Lol’s house. The early light had hung a grey pall on the empty living room where the wood stove was dead. She’d tried the knocker, pointlessly, and then she was walking back across the empty pink-lit square, panting, dazed and wide-eyed with panic.

Could she ring Danny at Kinnerton this early? She was not possessive, didn’t pressure, didn’t chase. Not a worrier.

She sat on the edge of the chancel, the church keys lying on a stone flag at her feet. She’d prayed, then let her fears lie for a while, unexamined, as flesh-coloured light through the high plain-glass windows laid a greasy sheen on the pew ends.

Been letting things slide, Lol had said.

You and me both. Merrily picked up the keys and stood. She already had her mobile out.

‘Not at all, Mrs Watkins!’ Greta Thomas, a woman who’d spent half a lifetime competing with amplifiers. ‘I been up hours.’

Merrily waited in the dewy churchyard until Danny came on and said no. No, Lol wasn’t there. No, he hadn’t been last night, neither.

‘When you seen him last, Merrily?’

‘About five-thirty last night. I had a parish council meeting, and I thought we’d arranged to meet in the Swan, but he didn’t show up, and he’s not been home.’

‘He don’t go many places, do he? His truck-?’

‘It’s not like him, is it? I’d ring the police, but it’s just a few hours and he’s a grown man. They’d probably just laugh at me.’

‘You got any idea at all?’

‘Only a worst-case scenario.’

‘I better come over now,’ Danny said.

On the refectory table, there was a note written in dying biro.

Mum… sorry… totally forgot E’s birthday.

Need to get the early bus into town. I’ll call you.

Love, J

Jane needed to get a birthday present for Eirion before she met him in Hereford this afternoon. Eirion’s birthday again, so soon? Was he nineteen… twenty even?

Feeling half-relieved at not having to tell Jane about Lol, Merrily started making tea and toast which she didn’t want, just giving her hands things to do while waiting for the news on Radio Hereford and Worcester. Like if there was nothing on the news, everything would be OK.

The only local item was Ward Savitch talking about opening up The Court to the public over Easter to thank the delightful people of Ledwardine for being so welcoming.

When the phone rang in the scullery, Merrily abandoned both the toast and Savitch.

It should have cleared her head like a bucket of water from a deep, cold well.

Any other time.

‘Liz said a colleague of yours died, leaving unresolved issues relating to a man I had dealings with.’

‘Yes.’

‘I no longer publish him, of course,’ Alexandra Bell said. ‘Nor, I imagine, does anyone. It was the worst three years of my career, so I feel under no obligation at all to protect whatever remains of his reputation. Heartening to hear that Liz finally got away.’

A faint Australian accent. An editor of children’s books, you expected circumspection, a touch of the fastidious, but this was a woman who wasn’t holding back, who had clearly waited a long time to let all this out to the right person. Merrily sat down and lit a cigarette. Maybe she was the right person, but this really wasn’t the right time.

‘Erm, I didn’t want to… my original intention was to try and find out the substance of the other two books in his Caradog series, which now seem to be out of print.’

‘Don’t know how much you know about publishing, Reverend Watkins, but first-novelists are normally easy to work with. You want changes made, they’re so grateful to be getting into print they seldom argue.’

‘He argued?’

‘He simply ignored all my suggestions and refused to answer my questions. If I asked about the historical basis for something, he wouldn’t tell me. Need to know, was one of his phrases. Have you met him?’

‘No.’

‘As a writer, he wasn’t arrogant, he wasn’t boastful, had no pretensions to be any kind of stylist. He simply thought that if he came up with good enough stories – and they were good stories, no question – it didn’t matter where they came from. But children’s fiction requires, if anything, more attention to history. So…’

‘Well, yes.’ Merrily watched the sunlight gobbling up the dusty panes in the scullery window, the day racing. ‘Look, if could-’

‘So, in the end, I went up there to see him.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’d been before, when we first signed him, to persuade him that Caradog would work better as a children’s book – a boys’ book. He was charming. A very attractive man. I think he thought I was just a girl with a chequebook, I don’t think he realised I’d be his editor. The second time, he was very different.’

‘When was this?’

‘Probably six months later, around 2003. This was when a number of issues had arisen about his manuscript. Sexism. Extreme violence.’

‘A lot of that?’

‘Oh, Christ, yes. Lot of kids’ books involve mega-violence, but not – how can I put this? – not delivered with the relish, the exultance, that Byron displayed. I’m no wilting lily, I come from a part of Australia not widely known for being ultra-PC, but to me it was unsuitable for young readers without major surgery. In the end, we got away with reducing it to the bald facts – as in, he cut the man’s head off. He rarely minded us toning down his prose, no prima donna stuff there. What I found most iffy – and I’m not what you’d call a person of faith – was the way the violence was equated with religion.’

‘In what way?’ Merrily pulled over the sermon pad and a pen. ‘In the first book, Caradog’s faith doesn’t seem to be defined. We assume he’s a pagan, but what kind?’

‘I did some research of my own. There’s a story that Caradog was converted to Christianity while in Rome, after his capture. Now, that might be a myth, but it’s an accepted myth. In Byron’s book, however – in the second book – he’s already been converted, here in Britain.’

‘By whom?’

‘By himself.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Caradog’s first battles with the Romans are in the east, in Kent, and they’re largely defensive. But at some stage he travels west to attack Roman settlements. And he becomes the aggressor.’

‘Would this be at Credenhill?’