Phil Rickman - The Secrets of Pain

‘Cockfights is a crime,’ Gomer said.

‘Who said this got anything to do with bloody cockfights?’

‘I never thought, see. Must be goin’ bloody senile, boy.’

‘What – this Eugene was a cocker?’

‘Eugene, he wouldn’t have the patience to feed up a cock for the ring, but he let it go on, see. Glenda Morgan had a fair few spells in hospital, them last years, and Eugene let all sorts go on when her’s out the way. Few quid yere, few quid there. Bad blood, Danny boy. Kenny Mostyn’s a rich man now, and still out on the hills, middle of a blizzard, callin’ the shots. Why’s he need to do that?’

Danny had no answer. Unless that was how Mostyn got his rocks off.

Inside the dark green tent, the Hardkit DVD was starting up again, with a blast of metal and commentary: ‘ You know me. I’m Smiffy Gill. I’m a bloke likes to grab life by the balls.’

‘All right,’ Danny said. ‘You stay there, Gomer, you’ll only send your blood pressure through the roof. I’ll go back, see what I can do.’

The guy was outside the Hardkit tent and he’d been joined by another feller Danny recalled from the night of the storm.

Danny reckoned if he was right, one of them would have a bit of a Scottish accent. He strolled over.

‘’Ow’re you?’

They just looked at him. Danny nodded at the Hardkit sign.

‘Seems like good stuff.’

‘It’s very good stuff, ma friend,’ the bulky guy said.

Thickset, couple of days’ stubble. A big-money bloke on his day off. Danny put on a rueful smile.

‘Too bloody costly for me, I reckons.’

The other guy – sharp-faced and wary-eyed – said, ‘There are shorter, more economical courses that don’t involve staying here. But we’re not the best people to talk to about them. Sorry.’

‘Weeell,’ Danny said slowly, ‘thing is, I en’t that interested in the shootin’ weekends and all that. Just I was told to ask in yere about… other events.’

The Scots guy eyed him.

‘In connection with what?’

‘Poultry,’ Danny said. ‘Poultry contests. Kind o’ thing.’

‘Oh…’ The Scots guy grinned. ‘Right.’ Turned to his mate. ‘This gentleman’s looking for a poultry contest.’

‘I usually talks to Kenny, see. I was told he’d be yere, but he en’t.’

‘That’s quite true, ma rustic friend. He isn’t.’

‘I’d ring him,’ Danny said ‘but phones, you never knows who you’re talkin’ to, do you?’

‘You do not.’

‘See, I’d arranged to bring a bird. Kenny, he was gonner let me know when and where, kind o’ thing.’

Starting to sweat a bit now. If Kenny Mostyn was to walk in now, he’d be stuffed.

‘You’re a breeder yourself, then?’

‘Of many years standin’.’

Putting a bit of menace under his voice now. If you looked like a bit of a hard bastard, why not play to it?

‘Good for you,’ the Scots guy said.

Danny looked him in the eyes.

‘If this is a problem for you fellers, just forget you seen me. I’ll call by the shop tomorrow. If I can find the time.’

The two guys looked at each other.

‘Ah, well,’ the Scots guy said. ‘That possibly could be a wee bit too late, you know?’

‘Bloody is tonight, is it?’ Danny slapped his thigh. ‘Fuck.’

The bald guy gave the Scots guy a look, and the Scots guy looked at Danny with no fear at all but definitely a measure of respect.

‘Y’know how it is, pal. Busy guy, Kenny. But if you want to stick around, I believe he’s due to call in later.’

‘Sure to.’

Danny nodded, a bit curt, walked away without looking behind him, to find Gomer. They went back to the Jeep on the parking area, where they unwrapped the sandwiches that Danny’s wife Greta had put up for him, sat there eating them very slowly, not saying much, Danny pretty unsure how he felt about this.

It was around four-thirty before a battleship-grey BMW four-by-four pulled in. HARDKIT in a neat curve across the bonnet. They watched a man jump down. He had on a shiny suit and a bow tie and carried an overnight bag.

‘Wassis about?’ Gomer said.

Danny moaned.

‘Bloody dinner, ennit? It’s on the tickets Lol give me. This feller can’t be goin’ to no cocking tonight.’

‘Mabbe afterwards,’ Gomer said. ‘Mabbe a few of ’em, sittin’ with their cigars, watchin’ the feathers fly.’

‘Not yere. Savitch wouldn’t risk it.’

‘We better find out, then.’

‘Aw, Gomer…’

‘En’t gonner get a better chance.’ Gomer sat back, tilted his cap over his eyes. ‘Mabbe a long night, boy.’

Darth Vaynor and Elly Clatter arrived in the CID room simultaneously, Bliss ejecting from his office, all caffeined-up.

‘I’m not wearing this, son. Not like she can hide in a cupboard under the frigging sink.’

‘Last her dad knew,’ Darth said, ‘she was living with a bloke in a flat in Belmont. We turn up there, front and back, only to find the guy in the sack with somebody else. Didn’t know where Victoria had gone. Didn’t seem too upset, mind.’

‘Just grateful he’d still got both eyes. How long since she went?’

‘Days. “Duh, whatever day this is” – that kind of guy, you know? Observant.’

‘Right.’ Bliss looked around. ‘Where’s Rich? I want this frigging city dismantled.’

Elly Clatter said, ‘Francis, if I could just-’

‘ What? ’

‘BBC are here. They-’

‘No! Tell them to piss off. Tell them we’ll let them know soon as-’

‘Francis.’ Elly’s hands on his shoulders. ‘They know. It’s all over the Net. Carly Horne was with some of her mates when Karen picked her up?’

Karen came over, nodding. Bliss moaned.

‘Kid’s a big social networker,’ Elly said. ‘There’s now a Friends of Carly Facebook site, campaigning for her release?’

Bliss let out his breath in a slow rasp. If he ever came face to face with the little twat who invented Facebook…

‘So what that means is?’

‘Sky,’ Elly said. ‘And BBC News 24. So far.’

‘What it also means,’ Karen said, ‘is that wherever Victoria is, she’d have to’ve gone blind and deaf not to know we’re looking for her. Meanwhile, Carly’s denying everything and Joss is saying very little. Time for you to have a go, boss?’

‘Yeh,’ Bliss said. ‘I think it could be.’

Mentally sharpening a knife on a steel.

A mile or so before Ledwardine, Merrily’s phone chimed and she pulled onto the verge.

‘I don’t know quite what you were expecting,’ Fiona Spicer said, ‘but I’ve just been given the results of the post-mortem.’

It was as though her voice was in a straitjacket.

‘Natural causes.’

‘Oh.’

If he’d been younger,’ Fiona said, ‘they’d be using terms like… if I can say this… Idiopathic Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy? I’m told it means a sudden, inexplicable heart attack. In an older man, even one as fit as Sam, it’s… less inexplicable.’

‘Had you… any reason to think he had a heart problem?’

‘No, and if he had I’m not sure he would’ve told me. He liked to deal with his own problems. As you know.’

‘Yes. How do you-?’

‘Angry. Cheated. Angry that he won’t see his daughter married.’ Finally, fissures of a deep grief under her words. ‘Cheated by his God. Nobody to blame but his damned God. Can you understand that?’

‘Yes. I can understand it. Fiona-’

‘I’ve a few other people to call. And Emily’s arrived. Our daughter. And her fiance. I suppose that means they’ll release his body, so we can… Perhaps I could call you tomorrow, if that’s convenient – I do remember what Good Friday involves for a vicar.’