Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

Joel Beard gave him a hard look for swearing in church.

'Now look, lad,' Ernie said. 'Pull yourself together. You're not really going to kip down there?'

'I am.' Joel rested an arm on the edge of the font. 'It's quite clear to me that it's become even more important to sleep in God's pocket. You were there today, I think, Mr Dawber. You saw what went on.'

'I saw a big, soft bugger making a bloody fool of himself,' said Ernie stoutly. 'Now, come on, it's getting cold. Pick up your suitcase; you can stay in my spare room for tonight, and we'll have a bit of a chat.'

Joel Beard made no reply. He stood very call and very still, the amber lights turning his tight curls into a golden crown.

'Good night, Mr Dawber,' he said. The double doors crashed back. Roger Hall burst in, and he was white to the edges of his beard.

Chrissie was sitting at her desk, the senior detective, Ashton, casually propping his bum against it, hands deep into his trenchcoat pockets, the detective-sergeant playing with the zip on his anorak.

Roger just stood in the doorway breathing like a trainee asthmatic. He was wearing casual gear, the polo shirt and the golfing trousers. 'All right, what's happened?' Staring all round the room and finally noticing her. 'Chrissie…?'

'Don't look at me like that, Dr Hall. I know less than you.' Obviously. Being the minion.

'How much did they tell you on the phone, Dr Hall? Ashton asked, corning to his feet.

'Just… Just that… Is this on the level? It s not a joke?'

Ashton shook his head. 'Doesn't look like it, I'm afraid sir.

Roger glared across the office at the metal door. It was shut. 'It's unbelievable.' Shaking his head. 'What happened to the so-called security patrol?'

'We'll be talking to the company, sir, have no doubts.

Meantime, we didn't like to touch anything until you got here, so it you'd be good enough to take us through…'

Roger nodded dumbly. Chrissie was almost feeling sorry for him. His face was like a crumpled flour bag. He looked like a parent who'd just learned his child had been found on a railway line. In fact, to him, if somebody had vandalized his beloved bogman, this was probably worse

Which is why Chrissie didn't quite feel sorry for him.

The two detectives, Ashton and the chubby one in the anorak, waited while Roger went to unlock his personal high-security cabinet. He brought out both keys. The detectives followed him to the ante-room and then all three of them went through to the inner lab.

Chrissie stayed behind, elbows on her desk, chin propped in her hands, waiting for the eruption. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry on his behalf.

'No…!' Roger's voice echoing back. 'Look…Inspector, is it?'

'Gary Ashton, sir. Greater Manchester.'

'I'm… I just can't believe this has happened. What I… Look, let me do some checks. It's possible… unlikely, but possible… that there's a rational explanation. I've been away for a few days this week. It's conceivable, I suppose, that something was arranged and by some incredible oversight I wasn't informed.'

'You mean whoever it was forgot to inform the caretaker they'd be dropping in, sir? After dark?'

'No. You're right. Clutching at straws, I suppose. God almighty, this is… How did they actually get in?'

'Quite professionally done, sir. The rear doors were forced, both sets, but forced by somebody who knew how, if you see what I mean.'

'It's… unbelievable.'

Chrissie heard a clang. Roger's fist hitting the metal table.

'If you wouldn't mind, sir… fingerprints.'

'Sorry. It's just… if anything, any one thing, had been specifically calculated to fucking ruin me, this..

'Ruin you, Dr Hall?'

'I… We had a lot riding on it. You don't get your hands on one of these very often.'

'How valuable would you say? I mean, I realise you can't…'

'Invaluable. And yet nor valuable at all to most people. You could hardly stick it in your hall like a Rodin. It's beyond me, the whole thing. And yet…'

Chrissie's head shot up out of her hands. Never!

'Well, sir, I expect you have photographs. I'll also need to know what kind of vehicle would be required, assuming it has been removed from immediate area.'

Bloody hell! Chrissie stood up. She found she was shaking.

'We'll obviously be searching the grounds pretty thoroughly. But if you wanted to get it away without damaging it…would it need any special conditions? Refrigeration?

'It's in peat. Inspector. Peat's a preservative. That's how he survived for two thousand years.'

'Of course. Sorry. Stupid of me. Anyway… We're clearly not looking for young tearaways here, so have you any idea, any notion at all, who in the wide world would go to so much trouble to…'

'Steal a two-thousand-year-old corpse.'

'Old as that? Well. Wouldn't be much use for medical research then? So what are we looking for? Bit of a nutter? A rich eccentric collector? I'll be honest, Dr Hall, I've not come across anything quite like this. It's a one-off.'

'It's unbelievable,' Roger said for about the fifteenth time, and Chrissie heard him pacing the echoing empty lab.

The girl who opened the Rectory door was sipping red soup off the top of an overflowing mug. She watched both of them cautiously over the rim.

'Sorry,' Dic said. 'It's an awkward time.'

She swallowed hot soup, winced. 'No problem. I'm on my own.'

'That's what I thought. We, er, we needed somewhere to talk… Sorry… your dad, is he… How is he?'

'They say it's a minor heart attack.' Tomato soup adhering to her lips. 'I'm not allowed to see him until tomorrow, he has to have rest. Ma Wagstaff says not to worry. He'll be OK.'

She sounded like this was supposed to be a reliable medical opinion. 'This is Moira Cairns,' Dic said.

'Hello,' Catherine Gruber said limply.

Moira sensed she was worried sick. The porch light was a naked bulb. Above it, the gaping orifice, spread by stone thumbs, was deepened by the hard, unsubtle shadows it threw.

The Sheelagh na gig, lit for drama, grinning lasciviously at Joel Beard. And he was appalled to think that everyone entering the church to worship God should have to pass beneath this obscenity.

Tradition, the antiquarians said. Our heritage. Olde Englande.

Joel Beard saw beyond all this, saw it only as symbolic of the legacy of evil he had been chosen to destroy.

A few minutes ago, he'd telephoned the Archdeacon from the kiosk in front of the Post Office, giving him a carefully edited summary of the evening's events in Bridelow. Not mentioning the appalling incident at the graveside with the bottle – which the Archdeacon might have judged to be, at this stage, an over-reaction on his part.

'Well, poor Hans,' the Archdeacon had said easily and insincerely. 'I think he should have a few months off, don't you? Perhaps some sort of semi-retirement. I shall speak to the Bishop. In fact I think I'll go and see him. Meanwhile you must take over, Joel. Do what you feel is necessary.'

'I have your support?'

'My support spiritually – and… and physically, I hope. I shall come to see you. Drop in on you. Very soon. Meanwhile, tread carefully, Joel. Will you live at the Rectory now?'

'The girl's still there, Simon. Hans's daughter. She'll have to go back to Oxford quite soon, I'd guess. But then there's Hans himself, when he leaves hospital.'

'Don't worry. We'll find him somewhere to convalesce. Meanwhile…'

'… I shall sleep in the church. In the priest's cell.'

'All alone down there? My God, Joel, you're a brave man.'

'It's God's House!' Joel had said, even he feeling, with a rare stab of embarrassment, that this was a naive response.

And was it God's House?