by Phil Rickman
‘Brekkin in, is it?’
Hell, she could move silently when she wasn’t whistling.
He held up the key and Mrs Villiers backed away from it like it was some kind of talisman for warding off old drunks.
‘En’t dead yet then?’
‘I’m sorry?’
Mrs Villiers did this kind of liquid chuckle. She had these small, round, monkey eyes.
‘Thought you was, boy. Thought you was dead.’
‘Huh?’
He saw a screw-top wine bottle poking out of a pocket of the long, frayed coat.
‘Cherry don’t do it n’more.’
‘No? Mrs Villiers...’ Robin tried to focus on her through the fumes. ‘Who we talking about? Who did you think I was?’
‘Put her up at my place one night, for free. I sez don’t you go there no’more, see.’
‘Whadda you mean? Who?’
‘I sez one day you won’t come out.’
‘Who?’
‘And her di’n’t. Was it you? Was it you?’
‘Listen,’ Robin said, ‘whatever you’re saying, I think I need to know this stuff. Talk to me.’
But she’d gone. She moved fast, Mrs Villiers. He stood staring down the alley until the whistling came curling around the chimneys like ribbon.
* * *
He carried the stiff greatcoat and the sacks up the wooden stairs to the sitting room. There wouldn’t be room to eat in the back kitchen downstairs, so they’d brought a pine table and some chairs up here. What they hadn’t brought – one for the removal van – was the sofa. The sofa. Just like they only had one bed. The only two items you sleep on, and they’d be the last to arrive.
He went through to the first of the two bedrooms, divided by a blockboard partition which he was sure would disintegrate like a wall in an air raid if you lightly applied a shoulder to it. Not a stick of furniture in either room. The low rooms up here, you could tell they must once have been no more than a loft, maybe a hay store for animals waiting to die.
Back Fold ran with blood. Echoed to the sounds of bellowing.
Robin inhaled massively. He couldn’t stay here.
But, more than that, he couldn’t leave. They had... hell, they had a business to start tomorrow.
Would have to be the bathroom, with its shaving bar which lit up mauve when you pulled the string. No mirror, only a grey-white wall, a basin and a lavatory. The bath ran the length of the opposite wall under a small, square window the one where, if you put your head out, you could see the castle.
He went back to the living room, pulled all the flat cushions off the dining chairs. Back in the bathroom, he tossed them in the bath with the sacks spread on top then shambled over to the lavatory and took a piss, standing to the side so the shaving light would show him where the bowl was. A bronchitic cough when he pulled the chain – or maybe that was him – before the water came coughing out.
He eased off his jacket and rolled it up as a pillow, trapping it under an arm. Unlaced his trainers but kept them on, as he pulled the string to douse the depressing mauve light, before climbing unsteadily into the cushioned bath.
Standing there, putting off the moment when he’d have to try and lie down. Turning around to lean over to the small square window and its view of the castle’s curtain wall and the sloping roofs rammed into it, to a stripe of sky and moonlight like crumpled chocolate-foil left on the stone. Behind it, the castle itself, invisible in the night, maybe dreaming of the old nights of blood and fire.
He turned away from the window, sinking down, in hurting stages, into the bath. Dragging the greatcoat over himself, like a rough sleeper in a high-street doorway, folding his body on to the side that gave him least pain – a close contest at the best of times.
Telling himself he’d had worse beds. Would’ve handled this no problem back in the day, when women eyed him in the street, with his long, dark pagan hair and his wide pagan grin made dangerous by a black stubble which now featured sad, pointillist dabs of white. Looking like the warrior he could never be.
He contrived to fold himself into the enamel bunk, drawing up his knees. Thinking himself back into the warm, pixillated streets and the soft lights. Everything bathed in a pinkening mist as he fell thickly asleep.
Whenever he awoke in pain, he shifted a little and sank back into the sleeping town letting go like a spirit in warm air with no reassembled bones to slow him up. Down Back Fold into Castle Street, and then the market square, under the cliff face of the castle, down to the clock tower, into High Town, Lion Street, Bear Street, history unfolding, the pink deepening until the heart of the town, blood-red now, became his own heart, swollen, throbbing and twisted, as if his chest had been opened, his ribs parted to let someone’s fingers start feeling in between the arteries, gripping the organ like a soft orange and... ah no...
He awoke fully this time, gasps torn out of him like rags, as he heaved himself up too quickly in the clammy bath, his face creamed with sweat, his nose and throat thick with mucus, a familiar agony jagging up his left leg as his eyes opened into cold early light, which...
… was not the early light. The high window was black as the bottom of an old grill pan. Nothing out there, no birds stirring. The only light in the glass was reflected from the room, and it was razored and sporadic, like fork-lightning.
Fearfully, Robin let his head turn to the wall above the metal basin, where the shaving bar, the one he’d extinguished with a tug on its cord, was sputtering like a dud firework.
It terrified him.
He rolled over the side of the bath. Lay jackknifed on the boarded floor, all the ruined bones grinding in his back and hips and groin. Looking up to see the monkey eyes between the chips of purple from the shaving light, and the crackly old voice coming out of the static amidst the electric spittle in the air.
Thought you was, boy. Thought you was dead.
31
Treats
TEN MINUTES OUT of Hay, Bliss’s fingers softly drumming on the dash, they were in Talgarth, shelved into the base of the Black Mountains like some Alpine resort, only without the wealth. Main roads meeting here, new junctions, a bypass, but the satnav woman had sent them into the town.
And then out again by a side road, the lights dwindling and Annie’s angular face withdrawing into shadow. Well, he knew she wasn’t happy about this and, yeh, he was feeling bad about involving her, she had a career, status, reputation. In her place, he’d be playing it entirely by the book. Hugging the frigging book.
But it was already too late. They were given sixty yards warning of a narrow sharp left, and then the satnav woman was signing off. Tall trees either side and high wrought-iron gates hanging open. Annie stopped between them, looked at Bliss.
‘Yeh, all right,’ he said, ‘I don’t like it either.’
Annie said nothing, drove slowly, on full headlights, between the gates into a steep dirt track that became a tarmac driveway, curving just too perfectly up a tamed hill. The beams found wellingtonia and monkey puzzle trees, and three storeys of muted lights.
‘Bugger me,’ Bliss said. ‘Who put this here?’
‘The Victorians, it looks like.’
Could’ve been a hotel, but it evidently wasn’t. Annie pulled into a forecourt under a pillared veranda as twin vaults of calm light were directed over them from up in the ivied walls. She switched off the engine.
‘Not on the breadline, then, Claudia,’ Bliss said, as his phone rang. ‘Gerry. What kept you?’
‘Here’s the score, Francis. Tamsin Winterson hasn’t been in contact with Peterchurch since she was last on duty. Her best friend in the force, Emma Green, South Wye, hasn’t heard from her since last weekend. And it seems you’re the first to do a PNC check on that number. We’re still trying to track Tamsin’s phone.’
‘Listen, Gerry, I’m here now, Talgarth, so I’ll have a word with this woman. You wanna call Tamsin’s parents? Who’s in charge tonight?’
‘Inspector Ford’s
here. I’ll put him in the picture.’
‘Tell him I’ll ring him when I’ve finished here.’ Bliss killed the call. ‘So what now? If Tamsin never followed up that number, what did she do? Did she go shooting up to Rector’s place? Did she confront this woman?’
‘Don’t go in hard,’ Annie said, ‘just to show you aren’t impressed by the conspicuous wealth.’
On the forecourt, Bliss saw a grey Land Rover and a low, red car with four smoky rings on its driver’s door: Audi Quattro.
This undoubtedly was the place, and she was in. He felt in his inside pocket for his wallet and his warrant card. Somewhere in the house, a dog barked gruffly.
‘Oh for—’
No wallet. Wrong jacket. Everything he did, or thought he’d done, now, it was all check, check, check. If he forgot to check, he screwed up.
‘Take mine.’ Annie Howe unclipped her bag. ‘Just make sure you cover up the picture when you flash it.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Annie.’
‘And if you’re not out in forty-five minutes…’
She put a hand on his arm. He couldn’t see her face, didn’t know if she was serious. When he tried for a smile, it felt like there were lead weights attached to the skin over his left eye.
* * *
The front door was up some steps, at the end of a porch the size of a small chapel, and the woman who opened it was younger than he’d expected.
‘Sorry to bother you so late. DI Bliss, West Mercia CID. Are you Claudia Cornwell?’
Maybe not. She had curly hair and an emerald nose-stud. Also a Dobermann standing beside her, silent and watchful.
‘Police? Is there a problem?’
Local accent.
‘There might very well be a problem,’ Bliss said. ‘Is Ms Cornwell in?’
‘If you wait there, I’ll see.’
‘Actually, she is.’
A wholly different woman’s voice coming from behind him. A low, but not exactly hesitant voice from Off. He turned slowly until he could see her in the floodlights at the bottom of the steps.
Both of her. Bliss hissed, bent his head until the images coalesced. She was wearing a light tweed jacket, black jeans pushed into the expensive boots. Brown hair was pulled back and held together by one of those big crocodile clips.
‘You did say police?’
‘Sorry to bother you this time of night,’ Bliss said, ‘but I do need to ask you some questions.’
‘No problem.’ She came lightly up the steps. ‘I’ve been out at a meeting. You’re on your own?’
‘My colleague’s in the car.’ Maybe the BMW helped. ‘Nothing too contentious. Won’t take long.’
‘All right.’ She glanced at Annie’s ID and then moved past him into the house. ‘This is Michelle, my nanny. Come through.’
Quite a big woman, though not fat. He followed her into an entrance hall less baroque than he’d feared, although the central staircase was impressive. Four pairs of wellies, adults and coloured ones for kids, were lined up behind the door.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Bliss. Francis Bliss.’
‘Ah.’ She turned, gave him a small and quite pleasant smile. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Not just now, thanks.’
‘It’s all right, Michelle.’
The nanny nodded, moved away. The Dobermann stayed, still watching Bliss until she patted her thigh, said ‘Prospero… come, Pros,’ and the dog loped off behind her and didn’t look back.
The room Claudia Cornwell led him into was plain and used-looking. Off-white walls, a cream rug on bare boards, a brass standard lamp, a drinks cabinet and a big, patched teddy bear on a lumpy, chintzy sofa.
‘Do take a seat. A proper drink?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Alcohol does me head in this time of night.’
‘Ah… of course.’
Like she understood. People like her always had to have understood, Bliss thought. He sat down next to the teddy bear.
‘Plus, I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ he said. ‘The thing is… I believe you might’ve had dealings, tonight or this afternoon, with one of my colleagues.’
‘I doubt it.’ She looked amused. ‘Always drive terribly carefully, Inspector, especially at night.’
‘This is a young policewoman. Out of uniform.’
‘So how would I know she was in the police?’
‘Ms Cornwell…’
‘I’m sorry. Where was this?’
‘Cusop. Probably.’
‘Cusop?’
‘Near Hay-on-Wye. Close to the home of the late David Hambling. Or Peter Rector, as he was formerly known.’
Claudia Cornwell sat down, unbuttoned her tweed jacket, looked steadily at Bliss from under eyebrows heavier and darker than her hair.
‘Tell me, are you fully recovered now, Mr Bliss?’
Bliss said nothing, kept himself still. At least the lamp wasn’t bright.
‘And – if you don’t mind my asking – what are you doing here? Are you allowed to operate in Dyfed-Powys territory?’
‘You’re not my Euro MP or something, are you?’ Bliss said.
Claudia Cornwell laughed. It was annoyingly musical. Bliss waited. Maybe it was as well Annie had stayed in the car. Annie hated being wrong-footed, even more than he did.
‘Sorry for that,’ Ms Cornwell said. ‘I’m a criminal barrister. We’ve never met – South Wales circuit, mainly – but I know quite a lot about you. Some of which I would have used with considerable relish were we to have faced one another at Worcester Crown court. As we surely would, had Victoria Buck-land not changed her plea to guilty.’
‘Jesus,’ Bliss said. ‘Vicky’s brief?’
‘Was to have been. I was quite looking forward to it. I so enjoy a challenge. Yes, the eleventh-hour change-of-plea was a very wise decision, but I’m sure we’d all have had a lovely time.’
‘Would’ve been great,’ Bliss said. ‘Long as you didn’t get her off on a techie.’
She looked into his left eye.
‘Victoria’s friends made quite a mess of you, didn’t they?’
‘I’m better than I look. And I’m guessing that’s given you enough thinking time, Ms Cornwell.’
Claudia Cornwell rose and went to the drinks cabinet, took down a half-empty bottle of Laphroaig.
‘Don’t mind if I have one, do you? Calm my nerves at being grilled by an expert. Sorry – not trying to patronize you. What’s the issue with your young policewoman?’
‘PC Winterson. Tamsin.’ Bliss watched her eyes. ‘Lives not far from Cusop.’
‘I doubt I’ve ever met her.’
‘She’s been assisting me, as a local girl, with an inquiry relating to Mr Rector’s death.’
Claudia Cornwell unscrewed the bottle, releasing peat musk. Poured an inch of the whisky into a crystal glass and sat down.
‘You want to keep this casual, I imagine?’
‘Meaning what?’
‘You’re not on duty, are you? Obviously got your girlfriend in the car.’
Bliss said nothing.
‘I promise you, you’ll get far more out of me if I don’t have to watch what I’m saying.’
‘You’re very savvy, Ms Cornwell.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong, and I’ve never met PC Winterson. I’m merely trying to help you in the best way I can, Francis.’
‘You haven’t spoken to her on the phone?’
‘No.’
‘Or been aware of her trying to contact you?’
‘No.’
‘Or anyone from the police, in the context of Mr Rector.’
‘No.’
‘Ms Cornwell…’
‘Call me Claudia, we’re not in court.’
‘Claudia, I’m here because Tamsin Winterson’s missing. She wasn’t on duty, and there might be quite an innocent explanation for this, but…’
�
��But as she’s a serving police officer you’re obviously concerned. So what are you asking?’
‘I’m asking myself – and now you – if the absence of Tamsin Winterson could be in any way connected with the as-yet-unexplained death of Peter Rector. Of course, if Tamsin turns up at first light and says her car broke down miles from the nearest mobile signal, you may never hear from me again.’
‘Yes, but, Francis…’ A helpless smile ‘… why am I even being associated with the possible disappearance of your officer? I’m very sorry to hear about it, and I hope you find her safe and well, and yes, I did know Peter Rector, but—’
‘Thing is, Claudia, you’ve been seen twice in the vicinity of Mr Rector’s home. PC Winterson had been told you were there today and she was on her way to ask you a few questions. On the basis that it’s possible you were the last person to see Mr Rector alive.’
‘When was this?’
‘When you appeared to be delivering certain… provisions?’
Claudia Cornwell sat back, cradling her whisky glass and then shaking her head wearily.
‘All right. Yes. That might, indeed, have been me. If I’d been to London, I’d bring Peter occasional treats from Fortnum and Mason. Items not so easy to obtain in this part of Wales. Or possibly any part of Wales. Or… his part of England. I was very fond of him.’
‘When you say treats… would they perhaps include items not available from Fortnum and Mason?’
‘You mean cannabis?’
That was bloody quick.
She said, ‘He wasn’t an habitual user, and it was entirely for personal use. It played a very occasional role in his work.’
‘With respect, Claudia, that’s what they all say.’
She met his gaze.
‘Oh, I don’t think they do.’
Bugger. You didn’t just say things fatuously, for effect, to a barrister.
‘You could well be right,’ Bliss said. ‘I’m not exactly an expert on his other activities. Not yet, anyway. How long have you known him?’