Childs thought, they must have worked on Estover enough to know it wasn’t him who spilled the beans to the paper. Now, because of my foolish desire to display omniscience, this bastard is making a link to Wolf.
He turned away abruptly and signalled to the armed police standing in the doorway.
He watched as Nikitin was hustled out of the room, then turned his attention to Estover. The medics had done all they could for him on the spot and were now preparing to stretcher him out.
‘Will he live?’ enquired Childs.
‘Probably,’ said one of the men. ‘But there’ll be long-term damage. And he won’t look pretty. One of his eyes is a goner.’
‘Oh dear. The whirligig of time, eh?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. Don’t let me hold you up.’
A few seconds later he was left alone with the dead bodyguard. A fatal-shooting enquiry would follow and the corpse wouldn’t be shifted till it had been photographed from every possible angle.
In death we can all become stars, thought Childs.
Of course it would have been neater if it had been Toby Estover’s body lying there. The lawyer still had the capacity to cause the Chapel some embarrassment, particularly if, as was not uncommon, his near-death experience turned him into some kind of blabbermouth penitent.
On the other hand, he thought, studying the photographs lying on the desk, if the press were fed some tasty morsels about some of Estover’s other clients who were then permitted to see these pictures, no one was ever going to believe a word he said again!
He slipped the photos into his pocket.
It was an ill wind that blew nobody any good, and he could either sell Nikitin to the Russians or he could bargain every last drop of useful information out of the man. And once a man had betrayed his associates, he was yours for ever.
Still, he would have to move carefully. Had this been purely a Chapel operation, Nikitin would have been rapidly removed from all possibility of contact with the outside world, but now he had entered the conventional legal system there was no way of keeping him incommunicado. The man wasn’t lying when he said he had friends, both in high and in low places.
Would he among all his other concerns have time to do anything about the possibility that he had Wolf Hadda to thank for his predicament? The man Pudovkin was still free. He had been seen driving away from the warehouse not long before the police moved in. A couple of men had been sent to detain him once he was safely out of range of the operation, but they must have been careless or he had been extra alert, and he had slipped past them.
Nikitin would almost certainly get word to him of what had happened, and share his suspicions of who was behind it. Once this happened, and the attack dog was let loose, Wolf might find what it was to be the object as well as the agent of revenge.
Walking back to his car, Childs took out his mobile and dialled.
‘Dr Ozigbo,’ he said. ‘John Childs. I wonder, if you should happen to see Wolf in the next few days, could you possibly give him a message from me?’
Book Six
The World’s Edge
. . . but Slith, knowing well why that light was lit in that secret upper chamber, and who it was that lit it, leaped over the edge of the World, and is falling from us still through the unreverberate blackness of the abyss.
Lord Dunsany: Probable Adventure of the Three Literary Men
1
As Luke Hollins walked down Birkstane lonning, he heard the sound of an axe biting into wood. It came from beyond the house, over the boundary wall, in the Ulphingstone estate forest.
As he got nearer he could see the tall figure of Wolf Hadda swinging his axe with rhythmic ease, carving gobbets of bright white wood out of a young pine tree. The man was naked to the waist, his upper body glistening with sweat. In the reflecting sunlight, Hollins appreciated the play of muscles in his arms and chest as the axe rose and fell.
Michelangelo could have done something with this, thought Hollins as he called out, ‘Hullo!’
The woodcutter’s head turned slowly towards him. He wasn’t wearing his eye patch and the sight of that scarred face with its one eye glaring at him turned the vicar’s thoughts from Greek statuary to Greek monsters.
‘I shouldn’t stand there,’ said Hadda, placing his hand against the trunk and pushing.
‘What? Oh yes . . .’
He turned and ran backwards and sideways as the tree began to sway towards him. He could have sworn he felt the rush of displaced air as it passed close and he certainly felt the ground tremble as the trunk hit the earth. But when he turned he saw that in fact the tree had fallen many yards to the side of where he’d been standing and Hadda was grinning broadly.
‘I doubt if a Cumbrian parson’s moved so fast since they raided that knocking shop near Carlisle Cathedral,’ he said as he strode forward, towelling himself down with his shirt before pulling it over his head.
‘Very funny,’ said Hollins, slightly out of breath. ‘Does Sir Leon know you’re stealing his trees?’
‘I reckon he can spare one,’ said Hadda indifferently. ‘In fact, I reckon he probably owes my dad quite a few. But if he looks bothered when you mention it to him, tell him to send me a bill.’
‘Even if I were inclined to act as a grass, I doubt if the occasion will arise in the near future,’ said Hollins. ‘I seem to have become non grata at the castle since Christmas. In fact, Lady Kira hasn’t shown up at church for the past couple of Sundays, though that might have something to do with that unfortunate business with her Mr Nikitin.’
‘Really? What’s that all about then?’ said Hadda, leading the way towards the house with Sneck walking at the vicar’s side, trying to get his nose into his trouser pocket.
As Hollins produced the looked-for treats, he regarded Hadda sceptically. Even in his self-imposed isolation, could he really have missed the main topic of local interest for the last several days? It had got plenty of media space to start with.
He said, ‘It sounds as if Lady Kira’s distant cousin (the distance is increasing daily, I gather) attempted to murder her son-in-law. Surely even if you didn’t hear about it on the news, you must have had journalists sniffing around to see if they could get a quote out of you. Everybody else in the parish has.’
And not everybody else in the parish is a notorious parolee who once employed the assaulted man as his solicitor and had subsequently been replaced by him in the marital bed, was the unspoken rider.
‘Oh that,’ said Hadda indifferently. ‘There were a couple. Never found what they wanted. I chased them off with Sneck. Then I borrowed Joe Strudd’s muck-spreader and parked it up the lonning. Next lot that came, I turned the spreader on as they were getting out of their car. After that they didn’t seem to bother me any more.’
Hollis fixed on the most remarkable piece of this statement.
‘Joe Strudd loaned you his muck-spreader?’ he said incredulously.
Strudd, Hadda’s nearest neighbour, was a Cumbrian farmer of the old school and a devout chapel-goer who regarded St Swithin’s as an outpost of popish laxity.
‘Aye. I found one of them Holsteins he’s so proud of badly mired in Hillick Moss and I pulled it out. Someone must have seen me, but didn’t want to risk contamination by actually helping me. One of your Anglican flock, I daresay. At least he told Joe, and he called round to say thanks. Would have said a few prayers too, but I told him I was already spoken for. And he said, “Aye, I can see how you’d feel more at home at St Swithin’s.” So you see what kind of reputation you’ve got, Padre!’
Hollins grinned and said, ‘Yes, Strudd’s usual greeting to me is “Give my regards to the whore of Babylon!” But all the same, Joe Strudd loaning you his muck-spreader . . . well, well. That’s a step in the right direction.’
‘They’ll be inviting me to speak at the WI next,’ said Hadda indifferently. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure? I’ve not put in my Tesco order yet.’
They we
re in the kitchen now. Sneck, persuaded the treats were finished, had stretched himself out on the hearth. Hadda, having put the kettle on, was spooning coffee into the pot.
Hollins said, ‘Mainly, like I say, to check you weren’t being besieged by journalists, but I see I needn’t have worried. In fact, you’ve never been much bothered by the media, have you? Not even when you first came back here. One might almost think you were under some kind of protection . . .?’
‘Aren’t we all, Padre? Surely that’s part of your message.’
‘I was thinking more of the terrestrial sphere,’ said Hollins drily.
Hadda poured the coffee. He’d grown quite fond of the young vicar and it pleased him to note that Hollins’s professional desire to see the best in people hadn’t taken the edge off a sharp eye and a sharp ear.
‘No cream, sorry. No, not really sorry. I still have hopes that I can convert you to agreeing black is best.’
‘Perhaps we can look forward to a mutual conversion? Perhaps not! But on the subject of black being best, another thing that brought me here was I had a phone call from Ms Ozigbo.’
The mug paused momentarily in its arc to Hadda’s lips, then he drank and said mildly, ‘I’m trying to work out if that’s racist or not.’
‘Hardly, when it’s not my intention to be discriminatory, inflammatory or offensive, any more than it’s yours when you offer your little bon mots about the Church.’
Oh yes, thought Hadda. One might make much of the Reverend Luke Hollins if you caught him while he was still young!
He said, ‘So what did Alva want? Checking up that I hadn’t run amuck with my axe?’
‘She told me several things. One was that she’s left her job at Parkleigh.’
‘Good lord. Any particular reason?’
‘None given to me. She said that she was presently staying with her parents again in Manchester. Her father seems well on the road to full recovery, by the way.’
‘I’m glad. Owt else?’
Hollins grinned. It was good to feel on top in a conversation with Hadda for a change. The man’s effort to sound only casually interested wasn’t all that convincing.
‘She seemed particularly concerned to know if your ex-wife was at the Castle. I said in view of the reported condition of her husband, it hardly seemed likely.’
Hadda said indifferently, ‘Don’t see why not. Unless Imo’s changed, I can’t see her spending her waking hours sitting by a sickbed, mopping Estover’s heated brow and squeezing his hand reassuringly.’
‘It turns out you’re right. When I checked with my churchwarden, whose youngest daughter does a bit of cleaning at the castle, he said that Mrs Estover is expected there some time today.’
‘You really are adapting to country life, Padre,’ said Hadda. ‘Impossible to survive here unless you’ve got a well-organized and highly motivated intelligence network. So did you relay this bit of news to Alva?’
‘No. I thought it would keep till I talked to her face to face.’
That got his interest.
‘Face to face?’
‘Yes, she too is driving up today.’
Both your women on the road north, he thought; maybe they’ll meet up for a coffee and a chat in a service station.
Hadda was regarding him sharply, as if he’d read the thought. Or maybe because he’d had it himself.
‘And she’s coming all this way just to see you?’ said Wolf.
‘She didn’t indicate otherwise,’ said Hollins. ‘She said she had some information she needed to share with me.’ He paused, counted to three, then added, ‘Something to do with you, as far as I could make out.’
‘So let’s get this straight, my psychiatrist is driving up to Cumbria to talk with my local vicar about something that concerns me?’
Hadda sounded angry but only, it seemed to Hollins, to hide some other emotion.
‘I suppose you could put it like that.’
‘And tell me, Padre, why did you feel the need to share this information with me? Secret meetings to discuss a patient’s state of mind are conventionally kept secret, I should have thought.’
‘I expect so. But as Ms Ozigbo didn’t indicate it was your state of mind she wanted to discuss, I don’t think it applies here. I’m sure she will reveal all when she calls to see you.’
‘But you said she wasn’t going to try and see me.’
‘No. I said she didn’t say she was. But I would lay odds she does.’
‘Oh yes? Turned you into a gambling man now, has she? So what am I supposed to do, hang around here all day on the off chance she drops by?’
‘You must do as you will, Wolf,’ said Hollins, standing up.
‘Must I? Well, I suppose I should thank you for acting as go-between.’
‘No, I’m not a go-between,’ said Hollins sternly. ‘Nor am I the confidant of either you or Ms Ozigbo. If you have secrets from each other, you should learn not to share them with me. Not unless, of course, either of you wish to confide in me as a priest.’
‘Wow,’ said Hadda. ‘Nice speech. I’ll pick the bones out of it later. There wasn’t anything in there about not being a delivery man, was there? You might as well take my Tesco order while you’re here.’
He took a pad out of a drawer, checked through a list written on it, scribbled a couple of extra items, and handed it over to Hollins.
‘Nearly forgot your cream,’ he said lightly. ‘Wouldn’t like to think I was driving you off by not pandering to your fleshly weaknesses. I like a few fleshly weaknesses in my priests.’
Hollins said, ‘Just as I like small acts of generosity from my sinners. Incidentally, as a matter of curiosity, what exactly are you going to do with that tree you’ve stolen?’
‘The ridge beam in one of the barns has a bit of a sag in it,’ said Hadda. ‘Probably been up there for three hundred years or so. It’ll last a while yet, but I’d like to have another one, seasoned and ready, for when the time comes.’
‘I see. You’re planning to stay around then?’
‘Not for three hundred years, perhaps,’ laughed Hadda. ‘But I can’t think of anywhere else I’d want to go. Not wanting shut of me, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And you, you’ll be sticking around too?’
‘Not wanting shut of me, are you?’ retorted Hollins. ‘Just when I’m breaking you in? No way. They might opt for a woman next time!’
‘Now that does sound sexist.’
‘No. It’s just that I’m out of practice with women. Now, I’d better get my tree sorted and shifted before one of Leon’s foresters notices it lying there.’
They went into the yard together. As they parted, Hadda said, ‘By the way, tell Alva if she does decide to drop by and I’m not here, she should make herself at home. This time, she should light the fire.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Hollins.
He made his way back up the hard rutted lonning, wondering how it was that every time he saw Hadda, it felt more and more like a meeting of friends.
2
Imogen Estover sat at the breakfast table, studying the morning paper. In front of her, hardly touched, was a bowl of muesli. Behind her the electric hot-plate on the sideboard was covered with the usual array of silver-domed dishes. The fact that the sole occupants of the castle at the moment were herself and her parents made no difference. Any suggestion that it hardly made sense to offer such a wide choice to so few people drew from Lady Kira the response, ‘Why should I treat guests better than I treat myself?’
Imogen turned a sheet and let her eyes run down the next page. She wasn’t so much reading the paper as grazing over it to check if there were any references to the assault on her husband and the arrest of Pavel Nikitin.
There were none. The Great British public likes its meat fresh and any successful editor knows that today’s lie will always sell more papers than yesterday’s truth. When Nikitin came to trial, it would all start up again, but a man locked away
in a prison cell and another lying comatose on a hospital bed do not combine to generate very much of interest. Meanwhile a terrorist bomb in Paris, a premier league footballer accused of match-fixing, the suspicious death of a TV chat-show host, a scientist’s claim that global warming was responsible for a plague of locusts in the Channel Isles, the first streaker in the House of Commons, the possibility of a constitutional crisis if the imminent royal twins both turned out to be male, the launch of the first solar-powered sex toy – these and many other items of similar importance competed for the headlines.
‘Good morning, darling.’
Her mother had come into the room.
‘Good morning, Mummy. You’re bright and early.’
It was barely light outside.
‘I sleep badly these days. You too?’
‘No. The days are short and I thought I might go for a walk.’
‘Yes, I see you are dressed au paysan,’ said Kira, her gaze taking in with distaste her daughter’s woollen socks, cord breeks and checked shirt. ‘Anything in the paper?’
‘Not a word. I think it’s probably safe for you to go out now.’
When Imogen had arrived the previous evening she discovered her mother hadn’t been out of doors for nearly a fortnight.
The upsurge in media interest in the Ulphingstones that had occurred as a consequence of what was referred to as the Wapping Warehouse Shoot-out had put the castle under siege for a couple of days. Locking the main gates gave little protection as the estate perimeter was defined by little more than sheep-proof fences and decaying dry-stone walls. Lady Kira’s initial response was to stroll around with a shotgun under her arm, ready to take a pot-shot at any stranger she came across. It had taken a formal warning from the Chief Constable after a couple of near misses to persuade her that she was not entitled to kill, maim or even seriously frighten trespassers.
‘Then let them roam at will. They shall not see me!’ she’d declared.
The Woodcutter Page 44