Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Coulda been an earth tremor.'

'That was what Mr Kaufmann said. But he still went all white, y'know? I mean, that filing cabinet was locked, I'm certain it was.'

'I can sympathize.' Macbeth shuddered, his mind making a white skull out of the tureen on an adjacent table. 'Listen, Fiona, I'm a little shaky on Moira's early career. She was at college in Manchester which is where she joined this local band, right?'

'Matt Castle's band. Matt Castle just died.'

'Oh, shit, really?' Remembering something mindlessly insulting he'd said about Matt Castle just after they met. What a shithead. A wonder she spoke to him at all after that.

The waiter brought Fiona's profiteroles. 'Hey, great,' Fiona said. 'So then she was approached about joining this rock band. Offered a lot of money, big money even for the time, to make two albums.'

'The Philosopher's Stone,' Macbeth said. 'But they only made one album.'

'Right. She split before they could get around to the second one. But, see, the word is that the reason they wanted her, apart from her voice, was that… You remember Max Goff, who owned Epidemic Records?'

'He was murdered, year or so ago. Some psychopath kid with a grudge.'

'Right,' Fiona said.

'I didn't know she was with his outfit. It was CBS put out the album in the States.'

'Well, the word is, Mungo…' Fiona leaned conspiratorially across the table, '… that the real reason Max Goff wanted her in the band was he'd heard she was psychic. He was very into all that. Like, he already had a couple of guys signed to Epidemic who were also psychics and he wanted to put them all together in a band, see what happened. Of course Moira didny know this, she thought the guy just liked the way she sang, right?'

'And what happened? I mean, that first album, that was terrific. I wore mine out.'

'Aye, but it all got very heavy, with drugs and stuff, and Moira broke her contract, came back to Scotland, went solo. Signed up with Mr Kaufmann, who's… well, he's no' exactly part of the rock scene.'

'I wondered about that.'

'The other singers on Mr Kaufmann's books are, like, mostly, y'know, nightclub or operatic or kind of Jimmy Shand type of outfits.'

'Who?'

Fiona dug into a profiterole; cream spurted. 'See, Moira made it clear she wisny gonny have anything to do with the rock scene ever again. And that's how it's been. She just does traditional folk concerts and selected cabaret-type dates. Really boring. Hell of a waste.'

'It's very intriguing. What do you think happened?'

Fiona shrugged. 'Most likely she just got in with a bad crowd. I used to think, well, maybe she was doing drugs in a big way. Heroin or something. And realised it was, like, a one- way street, y'know?'

'But you don't think that now?'

She shook her head. 'I know her better now. She's too strong. She widny touch drugs – not the kind that might get any kind of hold on her, anyway. I think it's more likely she just rejected the psychic stuff, the way they were fooling about, Max Goff and these guys. She knows what it can do, right? Like, if one person can shoot all the drawers out of a filing cabinet, what's gonny happen wi' four or five of them…?'

'This is fascinating, Fiona.' The kid was smarter than he'd figured. 'You're saying maybe she came back to Scotland to, kind of, put herself in psychic quarantine. Maybe scared of what she could do.'

'I'm only guessing,' Fiona said, 'but how come she'll no play any of the old songs any more? I think she wants to put all that stuff behind her. But can you do that? Being psychic, I mean, it's no' like a jumper you can take back to Marks and Spencer. Drink your coffee, Mungo, 's gonny get cold.'

He drank his coffee, not tasting it. He'd been fooling himself that this thing about Moira was purely… well, more than physical… romantic, maybe. She was beautiful and intelligent, and he loved her music from way back. But maybe it went deeper. Maybe this was a woman who he'd instinctively known had been closer to… what? The meaning of things?

Things that having money and influence and famous friends couldn't let you into?

Time of life, he thought, staring absently into Fiona's cleavage. Or maybe I really do have Celtic roots.

'Mungo,' she said. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Go ahead.' He could guess.

'All this stuff about a miniseries…'

'Kaufmann told you about that?'

'I keep my ear to the ground.'

Or the door. He grinned. 'Yeah?'

'Was that on the level?'

'You mean, are we gonna go ahead with a film about, uh…'

'An American guy who comes over here to trace his roots and…'

'OK, OK…'

'… falls in love with this beautiful…'

'Aw, hey,' she said. 'I think that's sweet.'

'So maybe you'll help me.'

'How?'

'Tell me where I find her.'

'I don't know,' Fiona said. 'Really.'

From Dawber's Secret Book of Bridelow (unpublished):

The oldest woman in Bridelow commands, as you would expect, considerable respect, as well as a certain affection.

Ma Wagstaff? No, I am afraid I refer to Our Sheila who displays her all above the church porch.

The so-called Sheelagh na gig (the spelling varies) is found – inexplicably – in the fabric of ancient churches throughout the British Isles: a survival of an older religion, some say, or a warning against heathen excess. Usually it is lazily dismissed as 'some sort of fertility symbol'.

The shapes and sizes vary, but the image is the same: a female shamelessly exposing her most private parts. Pornography, I am glad to say, it isn't. The faces of these ancient icons are normally grotesque in the extreme, their bodies compressed and ludicrous.

Our Sheila, however, is a merry lass with an almost discernible glint in her bulging stone eyes and a grin which is more innocent than lewd.

Do not dismiss her as a mere 'fertility symbol'. She has much to say about the true nature of Bridelow.

Round about 6.30, Chrissie had got a phone call from the police. Would she mind popping over to the Field Centre?

When she'd arrived the place was all lights. Police car and a van outside, an unmarked Rover pulling in behind her.

When the two CID men from the Rover walked across, they looked as if they'd been laughing. Now, facing her across her own desk, they were straight-faced but not exactly grim.

'I'm Detective Inspector Gary Ashton,' the tall one said. 'This is DS Hawkins' – waving a hand at the chubby one in the anorak. 'Now… Miss White.'

'Chrissie,' she said.

'Lovely: He was a fit-looking bloke, short grey hair and a trenchcoat. Fancy that… even with policemen, fashion goes in circles.

'If you've been trying to get hold of Dr Hall,' she said helpfully, 'he went to a funeral, but it should be well over by now.'

'Thank you. We know,' Ashton said. 'He left early, apparently, and went home. He's on his way. Now, just to get our times right, when exactly did you go home?'

Oh, sugar, Chrissie thought. 'We finish at four forty-five,' she said.

Actually she'd left at 4.15. Just before four, Alice had fallen back on the irrefutable – claiming she had one of her migraines coming on. Chrissie had stuck it for fifteen minutes on her own and then thought, sod it, and gone to fetch her coat.

'Four forty-five,' Ashton said. 'Right.' They could tell when you were lying, couldn't they? If he could, he didn't seem too concerned.

'Now,' he said. 'You're responsible for locking up, are you?'

'I do it if there's nobody else. I wouldn't say I'm responsible. There's the caretaker, he comes on at five. And then a private security firm comes round a few times at night… that's just since he's been here. They were worried there might be a few, you know… weirdo types, wanting to have a look. Or something. What's happened, then? Has there been a break-in?'