The Secrets of Pain mw-11

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Frightened, how?’

  ‘Frightened that like in ten years or something I’m going to be looking back with this awful self-hatred because I didn’t do what I should’ve done at the time.’

  ‘Flower-’

  ‘Yeah, I know, teenage angst. A phase. It’s always a phase, isn’t it? Well, how do you know for sure when it’s a phase, Mum? Is it after you like walk away, live in a city, get a mortgage, get pregnant… grow up?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mum said.

  They were alone on the square. Only a faint wisp of the woodsmoke which used to scent the whole village. Jane felt like they were both enclosed in a cold vapour. Mum looked young and waiflike tonight, in her dark jeans and woolly, no dog collar, not even a pectoral cross. Like somebody who hadn’t grown up after all. Who still knew nothing. It made Jane want to cry with despair.

  ‘What about you? What about you and Lol? If Bernie Dunmore retires, and you get a bunch of extra parishes dumped on you… and Lol has to go back on the road because nobody’s making money out of CDs any more… how long are you going to last as an item then?’

  Actually crying now, couldn’t help it.

  ‘Let’s go to the pub,’ Mum said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s go to the Swan and get a drink.’

  Men who had been reappearing? Oh aye, Percy knowed about them. He sat in the ochre glow of the firelight and the haze of scenty baccy, and he talked and giggled as the small windows grew dim.

  Walter had gone off somewhere. He’d doubtless heard it all before, these tales of the people who came up the fields in the river mist, no faces, no feet. Maybe Bax had, too, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was an incomer, and the fact that someone like Percy would talk to him at all about such matters, even after thirty years, was clearly a source of pride to him.

  Lol was thinking this was Percy’s routine – his act, his gig, his repertoire, the tales told, rebored, remoulded over many years. What was interesting was the way the anomalies were mingled, some otherworldly and some just odd in an ordinary way. To Percy, there seemed to be no difference. The people who came up from the river, all he could say was that they were greyish and one had a bird’s head, and sometimes you could see through them to the winter trees behind. Oh aye, he’d seen them on three occasions in his life, only for a few seconds, mind, each time. It was when you didn’t see them that they were dangerous. When they got inside your tractor and fiddled about. That was how Harold Wilding had lost a leg, and he was lying there, a new furrow filling up with his blood and he reckoned he could hear them laughing.

  Then Percy talked of lightless vans and trucks on the lanes after midnight. Men driven like sheep along the paths, over stiles. They had no faces either. And there were other things Percy had seen but couldn’t talk about.

  ‘Give him time,’ Bax had murmured.

  But there hadn’t been time tonight. Bax had looked at the clock, coming up to half past ten, and said he needed to be off before his wife came back from her rehearsal. He left Percy a couple of baggies, on the sideboard, behind the clock, and they said goodnight.

  ‘Course, he’ll deny to the end of his days that he’s the least bit superstitious,’ Bax said. ‘He was born here, like his old man, worked hard all his life on this ground, and these things were what happened now and then. Like gales and flooding. Nobody wrote to the papers about it.’

  They were leaning on a fence behind Bax’s cottage, looking out towards the darkening fields where villas had stood, with mosaic floors and perhaps bathhouses. And the rows of wooden barracks where the Roman squaddies slept – probably a bit like some of the huts occupied today by migrant workers on the fruit farms, Bax said, only with better facilities.

  ‘The vehicles with no lights,’ Lol said, ‘and some of the men with no faces…’

  ‘That’s the Sass, innit? Anyfink odd happens round here, folks exchange glances, nod to one another… and say noffing. They don’t question it. They’re patriots. Whatever fings those boys get up to, it’s done for Queen and country, for the security of us all, so that’s all right, innit?’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Not entirely unknown for them to help themselves to a farmer’s stock, is it, on an exercise? Dropped in the wilderness with no food, and you got to exist for whole days on what you can find in the hedgerows or trap and kill? Been known for them to lift the odd sheep, or a chicken from a farm. Some of the farmers, if they know where they are they give ’em a big fry-up in the barn. Makes sense.’

  ‘But not round here, surely? This isn’t the wilderness.’

  Bax said nothing. Lol gazed over the fields. It felt like they were standing at a sea wall overlooking dark waters, the distant Black Mountains like the far arm of a wide bay.

  ‘Jones’s place,’ he heard himself say. ‘Can you see it from the road?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No signs to it? I didn’t see any.’

  ‘Secrecy’s part of the image. The punters like that. So I’m told.’

  Lol had the map from the truck.

  ‘Could you show me where it is? On here?’

  Bax sighed, fishing out a spectacle case and holding up the map to the last of the light.

  ‘What’s these marks all over it?’

  ‘It’s a ley map we made. Four or five going through Brinsop Church. Don’t know how you feel about leys?’

  ‘Maybe somefing to it. Lol, look-’

  ‘Do any of these lines go through Byron’s land?’

  ‘Lol, mate…’ Bax bent and rubbed his knees then straightened up. ‘I don’t know what to say at this point. You listen to a geezer’s music over the years and you fink you know him. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve very much enjoyed our evening, and I got a great respect for what you do. But we don’t talk about our neighbours.’

  ‘To strangers.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘One day I’ll explain.’

  Bax pulled a pen from his jacket.

  ‘Can I deface this map a bit more?’

  ‘Feel free.’ Lol held the torch, while Bax worked out some distances then drew a small cross. ‘That’s the farm, is it?’

  ‘Wiv your line going right frew the top corner, near his boundary, where he had his… excavation. That what this is about? They have a digger, him and his partner from Hardkit. Geezer who owns the land overlooking it reckoned there was archaeologists involved. Dunno what was found. Nothing was ever made public. Then Jones had conifers planted inside his boundary fence.’

  ‘Hardkit?’ Lol said. ‘You did say Hardkit?’

  ‘Kenny Mostyn. He owns the Hardkit shops.’

  ‘He’s Jones’s partner?’

  ‘You din’t know?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  Kenny Mostyn of Hardkit. Byron Jones’s partner, Ward Savitch’s partner, kind of.

  ‘Do you know of any ancient monument on Jones’s land? Anything they might want to excavate?’

  ‘No. And he’s… trust me, he’s not the kind of bloke you ask.’

  Lol nodded, looking up at the sky, figuring there was a good half-hour of daylight left.

  ‘Well, I’d better go,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Bax. I’ll send you a copy of the album when it’s out.’

  43

  Brazilian Decaff

  Seeing the female silhouette through the frosted door-panel in the dusk, Bliss thought, Annie.

  Almost wept. It had come to this. Memories of winter nights when she’d parked around the corner, walked briskly, all muffled up, down the icy drive to the back entrance. The sweet, old-fashioned romance of it.

  What a twat he’d become. Bliss unlocked the door, thinking he hadn’t even made the bed.

  ‘I thought I’d better come round,’ Karen Dowell said. ‘Two reasons. One, I really didn’t like the sound of your voice on the machine.’

  Bliss started to laugh and went into a coughing fit.

  ‘And obviously did
n’t get that wrong,’ Karen said.

  He’d called her on his mobile from the car, having tried Annie twice – switched off, and he hadn’t left a message. But he’d left one for Karen.

  How long have you known?

  Because this had so explained Karen’s attitude. Advising him to back off, pass the information about Sollers and the fruit-farm girls to Annie Howe.

  You want to be a bit careful, boss, that’s all. Under the circumstances.

  Bliss backed up the narrow hallway, switching on lights.

  ‘Sorry, I was…’

  ‘Not drinking, I hope.’ Karen stepped into the living room, pulling off her baseball cap, looking around. ‘God. You into minimalism now, Frannie, or is this all she left you?’

  ‘You want some coffee?’

  ‘Show me where the stuff is, I’ll make it. I had your coffee once before.’

  ‘Look.’ He felt stupid now. ‘I didn’t expect you to come over.’

  ‘I told Craig it was work.’

  ‘I feel like a twat.’

  ‘You are a twat. God, Frannie, I thought you knew. I just didn’t see how you could not know.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. That’s the kind of shite detective I am.’

  Karen stood there, shaking her head. Bulky, uncrushable. Farming stock.

  ‘And then I thought about it, and I was thinking, well, if by any chance he doesn’t know all the history…’

  ‘What are you saying, Karen?’

  ‘Oh my God, you don’t know any of the history, do you?’ Karen tossed her cap on the sofa, from which all the cushions had been stolen. ‘He hasn’t always been a rural pin-up, Frannie. There was a time when being seen around with Kirsty Symonds was serious kudos for a guy like Sollers.’

  Bliss stared at her.

  ‘You’re saying that my wife and Sollers Bull were an item… before?’

  ‘Sorry to spring that on you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Quite a while back, actually. Couple of years before you showed your face in Hereford, anyway.’

  Bliss collapsed onto the naked sofa. Karen wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Actually, thinking about it, she can’t’ve been all that long out of school at the time.’

  ‘Mother of God…’

  ‘Sorry. Must be a lot to take in.’

  ‘She used to tell me she always went out with farmers. She said I was the first feller who wasn’t a farmer and didn’t go on about sheep prices all the time. We used to laugh about it. How do you feel about discussing sheep prices? It became a euphemism for… you know… back in the days when we made up euphemisms for it. When we were both laughing at the same time.’

  ‘You never her asked which farmers she went out with?’

  ‘Karen, why would I care? They all look the friggin’ same to me. Industrial woollen shirts and hairy arms.’

  ‘Not Sollers, however.’

  ‘No.’ Bliss looked down into his hands. ‘Not Sollers.’

  Karen sat down opposite him, in the chair by the cold grate. Looked across at him, a bit apprehensive, as though she still wasn’t sure how much to say.

  ‘When did it end, Karen? Or when was it suspended?’

  ‘Just fizzled out, I suppose. Sollers was at college, and mixing more in… you know, hunting circles… with the nobs. I suppose that was how he met Charlotte, Walford’s daughter. Walford was a hunt master, I think. And then one thing led to another. That is… did Charlotte get pregnant? I think maybe that was it. My mum reckons it was never destined to last. They pretty much lead separate lives now, since the kids went to boarding school. I wouldn’t imagine Lord Walford knows about him picking up again with Kirsty, but – like, from what you’ve told me – it’s pretty clear Chris Symonds does.’

  Sollers’s big 4x4 shoved among the trees, just the other side of the farmhouse porch.

  ‘Symonds never liked me. Despised how I earned me crust. And now, coming up to forty, and still not behind a big desk at headquarters. Who else knows?’

  Karen looked glum.

  ‘All right, tell me.’

  ‘Stagg.’

  ‘ Fuck… no! ’

  ‘Actually, it was Stagg who got the whisper, on his travels. From the inevitable nosy neighbour. Probably made his year. Couldn’t wait to go blabbing to the DCI. As you can imagine.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  Bliss closed his eyes. Total explanation of Annie’s phone message. Him thinking she’d somehow found out that Kirsty knew about them.

  ‘Has it got out to the press?’

  ‘I think, on balance, it wouldn’t be too much in Sollers’s interests for it to be in the papers that there was a private issue between you and him.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  What was evident was that Kirsty must’ve made it clear to Sollers that her husband didn’t know about them. That she’d never told him. And if he had found out, Kirsty had him and Annie in her back pocket for bargaining purposes.

  How long had Kirsty and Sollers been meeting quietly? Months? Years? Bliss thought of how she’d looked the last time he’d taken the kids back. The short skirt, the classy make-up. Thinking she’d done that for him, to let him know what he was missing. He felt… not so much humiliated as ashamed.

  And afraid. Afraid of the implications for the future. His kids. And also… ‘You know what this means? It means I can’t touch him, Karen. It means I can’t nail the cun-’ He straightened up. ‘Sorry, sorry. If I sound like I’m coming apart, it’s because I am. The friggin’ twisted irony of it…’

  ‘Have you even got anything on him? Anything? ’

  ‘You know how much I’ve got.’

  ‘Then it’s nothing. And no legitimate reason to connect Mansel’s murder with the Marinescus. I’ll make that coffee.’

  Bliss followed Karen into the kitchen.

  ‘They’ve been stirring it for me. Did you hear that? Did you get that from Stagg, too? How it got back to the Chief Constable that me and Kirsty were splitting up? That it was down to physical abuse?’

  Karen turned slowly.

  ‘Who’s saying that?’

  Bliss shrugged.

  Karen said. ‘Sollers? Chris Symonds? Kirsty herself?’

  ‘Hardly matters now – it’s done its job. Persuaded the Chief to take steps to remove me from the division.’

  ‘You’re not just accepting that?’

  ‘No. Obviously not. But even taking on the Chief, through the Federation or whatever, means I’m out of here, one way or another.’

  ‘A few of us won’t stand by and watch it happen. Where’s the coffee?’

  ‘I’ve had it with this place, anyway. Cupboard over the sink.’

  ‘Vaynor.’ Karen reached up to the cupboard. ‘Me. Rich Ford, even. What’s this?’

  Karen was holding up the last jar of Brazilian decaff.

  ‘Kirsty must’ve left it,’ Bliss said quickly.

  ‘No wonder you were doomed – this is what the DCI drinks.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You’ve not got anything else?’

  ‘I don’t spend much time at home these days. Out of interest, do you think Kirsty knows Sollers was shagging a Polish kid from Magnis Berries?’

  ‘That was a while back. Do you want some more bad news?’

  ‘Yeh, I’d love that, Karen. It’s what keeps me alive.’

  ‘It doesn’t…’ Karen opened the coffee jar. ‘This is the other reason I’m here. Doesn’t look like Sollers Bull killed the Marinescus.’

  ‘ Had them killed. I never said he did it himself.’

  ‘No.’ Karen shook her head. ‘I haven’t given this to Brian Wilton yet. I met a woman earlier tonight.’

  ‘One of the toms?’

  ‘Middle-aged lady who sings in the Cathedral choir.’

  ‘Takes all sorts.’

  ‘No, not one of the toms, boss. She’s manageress of Harriet’s of Bridge Street, clothing emporium for the
maturer lady?’

  Bliss shook his head.

  ‘Two young women came in, looking at clothes a bit too old for them. There were three elderly customers in at the time, and the girls were being very solicitous to the one not being served. Like, What about this one? Really suits you. You try it on, I look after your bag , kind of thing.’

  ‘How do you know it was the Marinescus?’

  ‘Showed her the pictures.’

  ‘How disappointing,’ Bliss said. ‘Come to something when you can’t even trust a girl with an icon of the Holy Mother any more.’

  He started to laugh before he could cry. Another curtain closing.

  ‘Anyway,’ Karen said, ‘Harriet’s is a small enough shop for the staff to notice these things, and some tops had been nicked the previous week. When she offered to take care of the bag herself, the two girls were out the door in a flash.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me a great deal,’ Bliss said. ‘Also ties in with the new gear in the wardrobe at Goldie’s. Is there a word for a female Fagin? The Marinescus were hard up.’

  ‘It’s not the first,’ Karen said. ‘Last time, they got away with it. This was a much bigger store than the mail-order surplus place up on the Holmer?’

  Bliss waited. Karen spooned coffee into mugs.

  ‘This was another old lady, right? Eighty-three. They took her bag, containing her purse, photos of the grandchildren… all the usual. She was very, very upset. They called the police and then they had to take her home. Remember it now?’

  Bliss nodded vaguely. Karen stood with her back to the cooker.

  ‘The proprietor rang up the old lady next day. She wasn’t there. She’d been rushed to hospital the previous night.’

  ‘Did we know about that?’

  ‘No, we didn’t. She had a long history of strokes, and anyway she made a brief recovery. The family agreed to keep quiet, didn’t want her getting fussed. The shop woman told me that when I rang her. Three weeks later – that would be a week or so ago – the old girl had another stroke and died in hospital.’

  ‘I see. Handbag.’