Phil Rickman - The Secrets of Pain

‘Where’s my mum? Did you call my mum?’

‘Carly, you refused to have your mum in with you.’

‘Well, now I want her.’

Bliss thought about his own kids, how they might turn out after exposure to the influence of a rich, cocky farmer with hunting skills. Carly must’ve seen the darkening of his face. She seemed to throb.

‘Gonner be sick.’

Bliss didn’t move.

‘What did Victoria say, after she noticed the lady had passed away ? Come on, Carly.’

Carly sniffed hard, eyes filling up.

‘What did Victoria say, Carly?’

Carly leaned back in her chair, face shining with teary snot.

‘“That’s…” She said, “that’s a bugger.” Then she said, “We’re… gonner have to do the other one now.”’

Bliss watched Karen Dowell’s lips forming a distinct o.

‘I think this might be a good time to take a break, Inspector,’ Mr Nye said.

Should have seen this coming, from the first tap of James Bull-Davies’s umbrella on the vicarage door. In this job, looking stupid was part of the package.

It was a rectangular room with pale yellow walls and a row of windows overlooking the east city. William Lockley accepted the padded chair at the top of the conference table. He wore a crumpled grey suit and a grey woollen tie, and his moustache screened his lips. An air of wariness. If Lockley looked less than comfortable, maybe that was something to do with women. Things you could discuss with them, things you couldn’t.

And then there was Annie Howe, putting down her briefcase, taking the chair opposite Merrily, who was trying not to stare.

No rimless glasses, longer hair, hoop earrings. A soft, stripy woollen sweater. Soft? Stripy? You’d almost think there was a man in the background.

‘We’re here because Ms Watkins seems to have convinced Mr Lockley that I should be considering a possible connection between the death, due to heart failure, of Samuel Dennis Spicer, chaplain to the Special Air Service… and the murder of Mansel Bull. Is that correct?’

As if she was addressing a fourth person at the table. At least the voice hadn’t changed. Still crunching ice cubes.

‘And the link,’ Howe said, ‘would appear to be a third man, Colin Jones. A man in whom Mr Lockley’s people seem to have been interested for a while.’

‘Been felt…’ Lockley cleared his throat ‘… that an eye should be kept on him, yes.’

‘Although nothing was conveyed to us. Until now, when it might just be getting embarrassing.’

‘Nothing to say until now, Annie.’

Howe leaned back, arms folded, a posture reflecting decades of resentment between the police and soft-shoed spooks who wrote their own rules.

‘Who exactly did you have keeping an eye on Jones, Mr Lockley?’

‘People we trust, mostly ex-army. And it’s been very low-key. For example, we once booked a chap into a tourism course that Jones’s ex-wife was attending. Which was quite productive.’

Merrily sat up. Those old contracting walls. Garrison Ledwardine.

Annie Howe bent to her briefcase and slid out a laptop, which she opened up on the table.

‘And there’s another man, in whom we ’ve had a mild interest over the years – Kenneth Mostyn, Jones’s business partner. Since establishing Hardkit he’s been suspected of selling imported surveillance equipment – illegal at the time, though nowadays there’s not much you can’t obtain through the Internet.’

‘Mostyn’s very much a type,’ Lockley said. ‘More common in the US, where you find whole communities of them in cabins in the wilds, living out their fantasies of the collapse of civilization. Every man for himself, usually armed to the teeth.’

‘He certainly sells a range of shotguns. How he became involved with Jones… can you throw some light there?’

‘Simply convenient for them both. Mostyn had a side enterprise running adventure holidays – canoeing, rock climbing – but it didn’t have the glamour that an SAS connection confers. The joint enterprise operates under a rather enticing cloak of secrecy – students brought in at night, sometimes blindfolded, or driven around to disorient them. Quite soon, through word of mouth, it became, you know, the thing to do. If you could afford it.’

‘And perhaps we should also mention Ward Savitch.’

‘Chap running champagne shooting weekends for corporate clients. High-level contacts in the City – venerable financial institutions putting their executives into an intensive course designed to make them leaner and fitter. Especially useful – and this is the ingenious part – after the recession and the huge backlash against the financial sector, particularly banks and bankers. The old killer instinct shrivelling under the public spotlight.’

‘So the idea,’ Howe said, ‘is to get them believing in themselves again.’

‘And not only in themselves.’ Lockley looked at Merrily. ‘Apparently.’

Merrily felt small and unprepared, like when you arrived in an exam room and your mind had been wiped.

Sometimes, when she looked up, the room would blur. Forgotten how tired she was. God knew what she must look like. She fingered the bulge of the cigarette packet through the fabric of her bag.

‘Some of this is going to sound a bit… loony.’

‘I’d expect nothing less from you, Ms Watkins,’ Annie Howe said. Then lifted a placating palm. ‘I apologize. Go on.’

‘Building a case against people… not what I do, obviously. All I can give you is possibly enough background to shape some questions. Essentially, Mr Jones follows a pagan religion adopted by the Roman invaders of Britain two thousand years ago. A soldiers’ religion, which-’

There was a tapping and a very tall young guy put his head around the door to say that, down in the canteen, Mr Jones was getting a little restive, making noises about having to attend a dinner.

‘What do you want me to do, ma’am?’

Annie Howe lifted a finger.

‘Perhaps I should have reminded you both that Colin Jones came in this afternoon in connection with last night’s break-in at his premises. He’s downstairs and apparently happy to answer any questions we might have for him.’

‘Rather interesting in itself, that,’ Lockley said. ‘I’m guessing you wouldn’t normally expect a man who’s had a minor break-in to visit the police station just to say he doesn’t want to press charges.’

‘Well… says he was coming into town anyway, but my guess would be that he was disconcerted to find quite a large police presence in his backyard last night.’ Annie Howe turned to Lockley. ‘Get him up?’

‘He knows what you want to talk to him about.’

‘He knows it’s about Spicer.’ Howe looked at Merrily. ‘Looks like you get to ask the questions yourself, Ms Watkins.’

Were those contact lenses magnifying an old malice, or what?

The mouthy ones like Carly, he could enjoy the scrap, so Bliss had left Joss to Karen and Darth. Never been as good with the deep and the silent. Karen had more patience, and she was local and so was Darth. They’d get there. Good as cracked, really.

Bliss sat on his own in a corner of the CID room. All falling into place, who’d done what: one sister killed accidentally, the second purely to keep the lid on it. In cold blood, pitiless. Head repeatedly banged on the bricks until she died. In Hereford. Made you shiver. Who’d suddenly cranked up the violence level in this county?

The sexual assault? Probably an afterthought, to make it look like a rapist attack, but who could say? Who was the bloke, how much of it was down to him? It would doubtless come out, when they brought Victoria Buckland in. Which, in theory, should not be difficult. But then, in theory, they should’ve had her already.