Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

This was a big death.

Willie Wagstaff stood in the front garden looking at his shoes, drawing long breaths. His hands hung by his sides, fingers motionless. The kettle's wild whistling ended with a gasp, and then Milly Gill came out and joined them. 'You'll need a doctor, Willie, luv.'

His head came up, eyes briefly bright, but the spark of hope fading in an instant.

'Death certificate,' Milly said softly. She took his arm. 'Come on. Post Office. I'll make us some tea.'

The street was silent, but doors were being opened, curtains tweaked aside. Shadowed faces; nobody came out – everybody sensing the death mood in the dusky air.

Moira thought bleakly, They don't die like this, people like Ma Wagstaff. Not at a time of crisis. They don't have accidents and sudden heart attacks. They know when it's over, and they go quietly and usually in their own time.

At the Post Office doorway, Milly Gill called out to the street at large, 'it's Ma Wagstaff. Nothing anybody can do.' She turned to Willie, 'No point in keeping it a secret, is there, luv?'

Moira heard Willie saying, 'I was only with her this morning.' The way people talked, facing the mindless robbery of a sudden death.

And I saw her less than an hour ago, and she was in some state, Willie… she was in some state.

'I'd guess it couldn't have been quicker,' Milly Gill said unconvincingly, leading them through the Post Office into a flowery little sitting room behind. 'She's still warm, poor old luv. Maybe she had a seizure or something, going downstairs. Sit yourselves down, I'll put kettle on and phone for t'doctor.'

'This is Moira Cairns,' said Willie.

'How d'you do. Plug that fire in, Willie, it's freezing.'

Scrabbling down by the hearth, Willie looked up at Moira through his mousy fringe, fishing out a weak smile that was almost apologetic.

'I should go,' Moira said. 'Last thing you need is me.'

Willie got to his feet, nervously straightening his pullover, 'I wouldn't say that. No.'

She thought, Poor Willie. Who's he got left? No mother, no Matt, no job maybe, no direction. Only fingers drumming at the air.

'Is there only you… No brothers, sisters…?'

'Two sisters,' Willie said. 'There's always more girls. By tradition, like.'

Moira sat on the end of a settee with bright, floral loose-covers. The carpet had a bluebell design and there were paintings and sketches of wild flowers on the walls.

'Ah,' Willie said, 'she had to go sometime. She were eighty… I forget. Getting on, though. Least she dint suffer, that's the main thing '

Oh, but she did, Willie… She couldn't look at him, her worried eyes following a single black beam across the ceiling.

Two bunches of sage were hanging from it, the soft, musty scent favouring the atmosphere. Homely.

'No hurry,' Milly Gill was saying in another room, on the phone to the doctor. 'If there's sick people in t'surgery, you see to them first. See to the living.'

When she came back into the sitting room, there were two cats around her ankles.

'Bob and Jim.' Willie's eyes were damp. 'Little buggers. Didn't see um come.'

Moira said, 'Your ma's cats?'

Willie smiled. 'Not any more. Cats'll always find a home. These buggers knew where to come. They'll not be the only ones.'

'This lady's with the Mothers' Union, right?'

Willie said, 'You know about that, eh?'

'I knew about this one when she first come in,' said Milly Gill. 'We'll have to have a talk sometime, luv.'

Her watchful, grey eyes said she also knew that women like Ma Wagstaff did not fall downstairs after having unexpected strokes or heart attacks. Willie's fingers had known that too, had felt it coming, whatever it was.

'Soon, huh?' Moira said. Joel Beard said, 'Here? In my… in the churchyard?'

He and the policeman were standing in the church porch, the wet afternoon draining into an early dusk.

'It's a possibility, vicar,' Ashton said, it's something we have to check out, and the sooner we do it the less likely we are to attract attention. You haven't had any Press here, I take it?'

Joel Beard shook his curls. 'Why would they come here?'

'They would if they knew what we were proposing to do, sir, and these things have a habit of leaking out. So… I don't know if you've had experience of an exhumation before, but what it involves is screening off the immediate area and confining it to as few people as are absolutely necessary. You can be there yourself if you like, but I assure you we'll be very tidy. Now, the lights…'

'Lights? You mean you want to do it tonight? I thought these things took…'

'Not much more than a phone call involved these days, sir. We're under quite a lot of pressure to find this thing, as you can imagine.'

Joel said, 'It all seems so unlikely.'

It didn't, though. It connected all too plausibly. 'Inspector, how do you suppose that this was actually done? Without anything being seen?'

'This was what I was planning to ask you. Country churchyard, even at night somebody sees something, don't they? Perhaps they saw and they kept quiet, mmm? When was the grave dug?'

'I don't know,' Joel said, 'I imagine the day before. The Rector was in charge then, but he… he's in hospital. He's had a heart attack.'

'That's unfortunate,' Ashton said. 'No, you see, what's been suggested to us is that the grave was dug deeper than is normal and then the body was brought here and covered with earth and then the funeral went ahead as normal, with Mr Castle's coffin laid on top of the bog body.'

'That's preposterous,' Joel said.

It wasn't, though. Somehow there was a link here with the old woman and the bottle she'd been attempting to secrete into Castle's coffin.

'You see, our information is that there was a request from some people here for the body to be returned to the bog. And when it seemed unlikely that was going to happen, somebody decided to pinch it. Would you know anything about that, Mr Beard?'

'Good Lord,' Joel said. 'No, I certainly wouldn't. You know, I think, on the whole, that I should like to be there when you… do it.'

'I thought you might,' said Ashton. Moira felt weary and ineffectual, and she had a headache. Walking, head down, into the Rectory drive, she was speared by lights.

Cathy parked her father's VW Golf crookedly in front of the garage.

'How is he?'

'He's OK,' Cathy said quickly, unlocking the front door. 'I'm sorry, I didn't leave you a key, did I? I'm hopelessly inefficient.'

About her father – Moira saw she was playing this down.

Cathy unloaded plastic carrier bags and her long university scarf on to the kitchen worktops, all stark, white butcher's-shop tiling. 'I went into Manchester afterwards. Had to get away somewhere crowded, to think. Got loads of cold things from Marks and Sparks. You don't mind, do you? Pop sees to the cooking as a rule. I'm a disaster in the kitchen. Did you get to see Ma Wagstaff?'

'Yes,' said Moira.

'Did she talk to you?'

'No,' Moira said. 'I'm afraid not.'

Then Cathy discovered the sugar bowl was empty and went into the pantry, the little room under the stairs, for a new bag.

'Oh,' she said. "The little scumbags.'

'Huh?'

Moira peered over her shoulder. Cathy was holding a brick. There was a small window in the pantry and the brick had clearly been used to smash it.

'Little bastards,' Cathy said. 'You know, this never used to happen. I know people say that all the time… "Oh, things were different when I was a kid and you could get in the cinema for sixpence. None of this vandalism in those days, kids had respect." But it's true. Even – what? – six months ago it was true in Bridelow. They did have respect.'

Cathy put the brick down on the floor. Now there's graffiti in the toilets at the parish hall. A week or two ago somebody had a… defecated on the seat inside the lych-gate. Can you believe that? In Bridelow?'