Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

Deserted. She tried, a little nervously, a couple of raps on the front door of the curtained cottage at the top of the street where Ma Wagstaff had lived and died. Finally, she found an old envelope in the car and wrote a careful note, walking back down the hill to push it into Willie's letter-box.

Willie, I suppose we need to talk sometime about what we're going to do about Mao's music on the bog body. I don't suppose you feel any more like it than me at the moment, so I'll get in touch in a few weeks' time. I have to go home now…

Home. Where the hell was home?

Home is where the heart is, and I haven't got a heart, I haven't got a soul.

I have been burgled.

She stood in the street and looked from window to window, up and down, in search of life, and did not find it. But then, what the hell business was it of hers if the people of Bridelow wanted to lie low and boycott St Bride's and its unsympathetic new minister?

And turning on her heel, summoning energy from God knew where, she walked crisply, with determination, clop, clop, bloody clop on the cobbles, back up to the lych-gate and the car.

Almost falling into the arms of the Angel bloody Gabriel in white as he strode through the gate, his desperate solo service abandoned.

'I'm sorry,' he snapped. And then, with his hands still on her shoulders to separate their bodies, he began to stare at her.

Seeing what she figured must be this sad, sluttish face, no make-up, hair awry, maybe a low and useless anger burning fitfully in the eyes.

His hands dropped away from her. His fists clenched. He began to tremble. He said, 'Who are you?' Golden curls tight to his head, Van Helsing-size cross looming out at her as his white linen chest swelled.

'Who are you?'

'Doesn't matter,' Moira said tonelessly. 'I'm leaving now.'

He blocked her path to the car, legs apart, this real big bastard in full Sunday vestments, humiliated in the sight of his God. Profile like Michelangelo's 'David' or something, a good head taller than she was and bellowing out, 'In the name of God… WHO ARE YOU, WOMAN?'

'Look, would you please get outa my way,' she said tiredly.

Like she didn't have enough problems of her own.

'It's Sunday morning.' He was snarling now, through gritted teeth, rage choking him. 'And my church is empty. There is no congregation. No sidesmen. No organist.'

'Maybe it's just your sermons are crap,' Moira said. 'Look…'

He said, in a kind of wonder, backing off, his surplice billowing like a sail, 'You're taunting me'

'Please…'

'I know who you are.' He was screaming it at the village, 'I know what you are!'

'Yeah, I'm sure you do, but would you please just get the hell out of my way?'

And knew, as she was saying it, that she shouldn't have used the word hell.

His face glowed red, bulging with blood.

She saw it corning but she didn't move. She took it from his massive open hand across the side of her face, from forehead to lower jaw. It would have hurt her less if she'd fallen, but she wouldn't do that. She stayed on her feet and she stared into his incandescent eyes.

Abruptly he spun away and strode back through the gate; she heard his footsteps crunching the gravel and then, hitting the path. Finally she heard the church door crashing into place with an echo that didn't seem to fade but went on smashing from one side of her skull to the other as she moved unsteadily to her car.

Being Sunday, he could park in the street right outside and wait for some movement.

It was a dull, cold day in Glasgow, and a light gleamed out of the second floor of Kaufmann's scuffed tenement, which indicated Fiona had got it right. 'See, he often works on a Sunday, catching up with his VAT and stuff. But, Mungo, you tell him where you got this from I'm out the door; long as you realise that…'

Lucky he'd kept Fiona's home number. He owed the kid another dinner.

This Sunday morning convinced Macbeth that being a private investigator had to be about the most tedious occupation you could have outside of accountancy. The first hour, the car radio kept him amused with some bizarre soap-style drama about country folks in which nobody got killed, nobody seemed to be balling anyone else's spouse but two guys nearly came to blows in an argument about milk quotas. Only in Britain.

The second hour Macbeth fell to contemplating the futility of his life so far, the hopelessness of his quest, etc.

And then, just after 1 p.m., Malcolm Kaufmann came out of the building and spent some time locking the door behind him.

Kaufmann bad on a long black overcoat over a pink polo shirt. Macbeth followed him to a crowded, chromium pub where Kaufmann ordered chicken sandwiches and, to Macbeth's dismay, sat down to eat them with two other guys he obviously knew.

Macbeth said shit a few times under his breath, ordered up a sandwich and a beer, sat as far away from Kaufmann as he could while still keeping him in view, and began to eat very slowly.

There were many women in the bar. Macbeth passed some time debating which one he'd make a move on if he hadn't been an investigator on a case. There was one in a dark blue velvet top who had to be wasted on the guy she was with; he was drinking too much and talking to other guys, she was on Diet Coke and probably only here to drive him home.

She had long, dark hair. Which, of course, was nothing at all to do with Macbeth picking her out, no way.

He was getting to thinking he would make a move, if only to make the woman's lunchtime more memorable, when Malcolm Kaufmann came swiftly to his feet, said a rapid goodbye to his pals and made an exit, weaving through the crowd with such practised agility that Macbeth almost lost him.

Couldn't be sure Kaufmann wouldn't get into a car or taxi and head off home, so he called after him in the street, and Kaufmann turned at the edge of the sidewalk and raised an eyebrow.

'Mr Macbeth. How very strange to see you.'

'We have to talk, Malcolm,' Macbeth said, trying to sound tough.

'Of course. We must arrange a time.'

'Like, now.'

'Oh, dear,' said Kaufmann. 'This sounds serious. What can the fair Moira have been up to?'

Macbeth walked right up to him. There was a cab idling not ten yards away, and he was taking no chances. 'We need to talk about a man,' he said, 'name of John Peveril Stanage.' Ashton thought he should tell her himself, maybe test the water a bit. Also, he liked a pint around Sunday lunch when he got the time – unable, despite his divorce, to shake himself out of the feeling that Sunday lunchtime was special.

And he couldn't deny he was becoming quite fascinated by this place, a bit of old England only twenty miles from factories and warehouses, muck and grime and petty crime.

He drove Across the Moss in his own vehicle, the Japanese sports car which was his first independent purchase with the bit of money left over after paying off his wife. A gesture.

Ashton realised now that Gillian was probably right, it was bloody pathetic to buy a car like this at his age. Lump of flash tat, and he could never even remember what bloody make it was.

'Oh,' she said, looking up to serve him. it's you.'

No curiosity, he noticed But then, if they had recovered anything from that grave, be all over the village, wouldn't it?

'Just thought I should officially inform you, Mrs Castle,' he said confidentially, across the bar, 'that we didn't find what we were looking for. I'm sorry we had to put you through this.'

There were no more than a dozen customers in The Man. Some had looked up when he came in. Made a change; most pubs, they could smell a copper the same way he could scent illegal odours amidst tobacco smoke. Always somebody in a pub with something to hide, whether they'd been flogging nicked videos or their MOT was overdue.