by Mark Pearson
‘So what does the Hanged Man signify?’
‘It’s really to do with being in a hiatus, sir. A suspension, if you like. Spiritually. When the man is righted, everything will be different.’
‘It was certainly different for him.’
‘It certainly was,’ she agreed.
‘And there was just female clothing in the case?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the forensic officer nodded.
‘So our John Doe was a transvestite?’
‘Looks that way, sir,’ added Constable Wood.
‘Couldn’t live with it, so he jumped in front of the seven-thirty Bakerloo Line to Harrow and Wealdstone.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said the scene-of-crime officer.
‘Go on?’
‘The underwear, sir. Female.’
‘Yes.’
‘Semen stains, by the looks of it. And blood, sir.’
‘I see.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Emily Wood.
Detective Inspector Hamilton flashed her a mirthless smile. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said.
5.
May Bank Holiday …
JASON KELLING SHIFTED into fourth gear and put his foot down. He was driving along the Western Avenue at one o’clock in the morning. He had been out clubbing, but hadn’t exceeded the alcohol limit. He was very careful like that. He was exceeding the speed limit, though.
He felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins as the speedometer dial reached the 100 mph point. He leaned his head back and shouted, gripping the wheel tightly, feeling the car – a Porsche Boxter in midnight-black – still accelerating.
Ten minutes later as he tried to brake and couldn’t, he was shouting again, this time the shout turning into a scream. The wreckage was strewn over fifty yards.
A week later, Jennifer and Jeremy Carling were seated at the kitchen table of their modest semidetached house in Northwood Hills, west London. He was a retired milkman and she was a retired nursery-school teacher. They were both in their seventies.
A bottle of vodka was on the table, together with two shot glasses and a bottle of Jennifer Carling’s newly prescribed sleeping pills. She had been diagnosed with clinical depression, and the pills were supposed to be a short-term measure to help her sleep while more thorough therapy was put in place for her. It was a short-term solution that provided a long-time answer.
They looked at the person who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen and, if they were hoping for sympathy in the eyes that gazed upon them, they were sorely disappointed.
‘You can do it this way, or I can make it painful for you.’
‘But why are you doing this? We don’t know you. We’ve never met you. We never hurt you.’
The elderly woman’s voice cracked as she burst into tears. Her husband patted her hand. Then he poured vodka into the shot glass and poured some pills into his wife’s open palm. He looked up at the woman, angry now as he tilted the bottle into his mouth, then swallowed the pills with the vodka. His wife swallowed hers a few at a time, her throat constricting painfully as the harsh spirit burned her throat. The man took another shot of vodka and downed it in one, then glared at the figure in the doorway.
‘Fuck you!’ he said.
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Not me.’
Half an hour later and the couple were dead. Heads slumped motionless on the table. A card between them, face-up.
A tarot card. Major Arcana. The Lovers.
Part One
6.
The present. Friday, 19 December
NIGHT-TIME IN THE city.
Seven-thirty. Friday evening. Inner London. The western edges. North of the river. The air had crystals dancing in it. The pavements sparkled with them, as if a dusting of magic had been sprinkled over them. The night sky had clouds half-covering the low moon. A moon that broke free, now and again, from the long, floating fingers of dark cloud that tried to snaggle it in their grasp, reel it back to them. But the moon shrugged them off, sailed free like a galleon under full sail. Further east, however, even darker clouds were massing and banking together, rolling ever westwards towards London, like a slow tidal wave.
On the streets of Oxford Street and Regent Street, of Piccadilly and Haymarket, the crowds still thronged. Couples and singles laden down with packages, gift-wrapped from Fortnum & Mason, from Selfridges and Hamleys. The golden light spilling from the ornate window displays in the shop fronts onto the faces of the happy shoppers. Office workers en masse, arms linked and singing. The air rich with a heady melange of sound, traffic, laughter, taxis hooting, the swirl and cacophonous dance of carol music competing with one another as doors were opened and closed.
Christmas.
A time for sharing and love. For wassailing and mistletoe, for mulled wine and mince pies. A time for peace and goodwill to all men – whatever their religion.
At least that was the theory. Some people, however, hadn’t got the memo. Some people had other agendas – and goodwill to their fellow man was nowhere on their list. For in the hearts of some, even at Christmas (especially sometimes at Christmas), there is a black wickedness that defines humanity every bit as accurately as the charity in the hearts of good men and women.
Light and dark. Yin and yang.
Life and death.
Holland Park. Eight o’clock Friday evening
Jack Delaney sat on the edge of his daughter Siobhan’s bed.
Her head was propped back on the pillow and her eyes were tired, threatening to close at any minute, but she blinked them determinedly, keeping herself awake.
Jack grinned at her. ‘Why don’t you just shut your eyes, my darling, and go to sleep. It’s late.’
‘Because you promised me a story. And I read in the papers that Detective Inspector Jack Delaney of London England’s finest Metropolitan Police force always keeps his word!’ Siobhan said, gushing the words out with a defiant pout to her lips. A pout that reminded Jack so much of her dead mother.
Jack laughed out loud. And it was testament to the fact that the memories of his dead wife which his daughter conjured forth didn’t put spikes of guilt and misery in his heart any longer. Siobhan had given a thick, Irish brogue to her words, sounding just like a wild, heathen child of Cork from his own youth. He’d schooled her in it, much to his late wife’s annoyance and mock-scolding.
‘I thought you preferred Kate’s stories nowadays,’ Delaney replied, teasing her.
‘No, I always like yours best. It’s just …’ She trailed off and shrugged.
‘It’s what, darlin’?’
‘It’s Kate’s house we’re living in now. So it’s only fair that if she wants to tell me a story, I should let her.’ She frowned, as if puzzling over a matter of great philosophical debate, and Delaney laughed again. It was a rich laugh, full of life.
‘To be sure,’ he said, echoing her and putting on the oirish. ‘Is it not yourself that has been off to scale the battlements and kissed the Cloch na Blarnan? Should it not be you the one as is telling the tales, I’m thinking!’
‘What is the Cloch na Barnan?’ asked Siobhan, all wide-eyed innocence.
‘Ah now …’ explained Delaney, although he was quite aware that Siobhan knew full well what it was. ‘It’s an ancient story,’ he continued. ‘The Cloch na Blarnan is what the unwashed, heathen devils on this side of the blessed channel call the Blarney Stone.’
‘The Blarney Stone!’ said Siobhan in feigned wonder. ‘Is it magic?’
‘Is it magic?’ said Jack, his own eyebrows raising as if in mutual astonishment and his voice slipping into a softer, lyrical brogue. ‘I like that! Why, is the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow magic? Is the music that the fairies’ fluttering wings make magic? Are the wishes that come true on a falling star magic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d better believe it is magic, Siobhan. Very powerful magic indeed. One of the most important of all the magics.’
‘What is i
t?’
‘’Tis said that whoever lays his lips on the cool surface of the stone will have bestowed upon them the gift of story, the gift of persuasion …’ He paused dramatically. ‘The gift, as they say, of the gab!’
‘The gift of the gob?’
Delaney laughed again. ‘Don’t let Kate hear you using that expression, sweetheart.’
‘Why not?’
Delaney grimaced. ‘Let’s just say that it’s not one she’s overly fond of.’
‘Tell me more about the gift of the gab then.’
‘Ah now, the magic of the Blarney Stone, you see.’ Delaney pretended to consider the matter. ‘Some say it’s best described as giving you the ability to deceive someone without offending them!’
Siobhan made an O of her mouth. ‘To lie, you mean?’
‘Well now, lie – that might be too strong a word. Bending the facts to one’s advantage maybe.’
‘Tell me more about the Stone. Have you seen it?’
‘No, I haven’t. I don’t need to. We Delaneys don’t need to see or kiss it to have its magic work upon us.’
‘Why not?’
‘Maybe that should be a story for another night.’
‘Tonight, tonight!’ Siobhan wriggled impatiently.
Delaney seemed to consider for a moment, before sighing and relenting. ‘Sure, and you’ll promise to go straight to sleep when the telling of it is done.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die, if I should ever tell a lie. May my soul lay down to sleep, if a promise I do not keep!’
Siobhan made a cross with her finger over her blanket and smiled as Jack sidled closer to her.
‘It all happened long, long ago. When a man called Cormac Laidir MacCarthy—’
‘The same MacCarthy as MacCarthy’s bar near where you were born, Da?’ interrupted Siobhan. ‘In Castletownbere.’
‘The very same name, the very same family.’
‘Will we go there one day?’
‘Did I not promise it?’
Siobhan clapped her hands. ‘And will we see the magic Stone there?’
‘No,’ Delaney shook his head. ‘The Stone now resides in Blarney Castle in Blarney. Still in Cork, mind, but not where it came from originally.’
‘Where did it come from then?’
Delaney looked at her for a moment before speaking. ‘From Ballydehob!’
Siobhan gasped again, theatrically. ‘The town where you were born!’
‘It certainly is, but there’s more to the legend than that.’
Siobhan settled back down on her pillow. ‘Go on then.’
‘Well, your great-great-great- to the power of something or other grandfather was a man called Liam Colm Delaney. And Liam was famous throughout the whole of Cork. As a fighter, as a poet and as a man who could charm the very birds down from the trees. But one day the worst thing that could ever happen to a man like him did indeed happen.’
‘What was it?’
‘He fell in love.’
Siobhan blinked, confused. ‘Why was that so bad?’
‘Because the woman he fell in love with, the very first time he ever clapped eyes on her, was called Aoibheann.’
‘That’s a pretty name.’
‘It is, and Aoibheann means “beautiful”. As in the heathen English word “heavenly”. Aoibheann Aghna Finbar McCool was her name, and she was the only woman in the whole of Ireland who was impervious to Liam Delaney’s charms.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He tried everything he could. He wrote epic poems, he sent fields of flowers, he pleaded and begged, but his honeyed words had no effect. She was as cool towards him as a Nordic snow-queen.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, in desperation, Liam prayed to the goddess Cliodna for her assistance. Now Cleena, as they say in the English tongue, was Queen of the banshees of the Tuatha De Danann. She was the goddess of love and beauty, and ruled over the Sheoques or fairy women of the hills of south Munster. And she answered his prayer.’
‘She made Aoibheann fall in love with him?’
‘It wasn’t as simple as that. At the same time as Liam was petitioning for her intervention, so too was your man Cormac Laidir MacCarthy.’
‘He was in love with Aoibheann too?’
‘No, no. Not so as I know, leastwise. But Cormac MacCarthy was the very builder of Blarney Castle! The day after he prayed to the goddess Cliodna he was due to appear in court in a lawsuit that was like to ruin him entirely.’
‘And was he innocent?’
‘Ah no, that he was not. But the MacCarthys – stretching back, as they did, for many years as Kings of Munster and Desmond – were looked on favourably by the goddess. And they in turn always showed the Queen and her court of banshees the greatest respect. So Cliodna decided to answer both Liam’s and Cormac’s prayers at the same time. Kill two birds with one stone, as it were. She sent a vision to Liam Delaney to stand on the high hill overlooking the estuary at Ballydehob, where there now stands a fine bridge that used to bring the trains across.’
‘I’ve seen the pictures,’ said Siobhan, nodding enthusiastically.
‘So your great-great-great-etc-granda, Liam Delaney, stood there at dawnbreak, as commanded. And as the spears of light broke over the horizon, sending golden flashes darting and rippling along the length of estuary, he saw a wondrous thing.’
‘What was it?’
‘A large raven burst from below the waters. Exploding upwards in a flurry of feathers and sinew, his powerful wings beating and shaking from them the droplets of the Ballydehob estuary so that they hung in the air, sparkling like a mist of the finest diamonds. And then he swooped higher and higher, and Delaney could see that in his beak the raven held a big pebble. As he passed overhead, the raven opened his beak and let the pebble fall to Liam Delaney’s feet. As instructed, Liam picked up the pebble, kissed it and then threw it hard out over the river. It hung in the air for a moment and then plummeted downwards. But before it could hit the water a loud caw was heard that echoed all through Ballydehob, and the raven swooped and caught the pebble in his beak once more and then, beating his powerful wings, headed north and east to Cork city and Blarney beyond.’
‘What happened to it? What did it all mean?’
‘It transpired that the stone had absorbed Liam Delaney’s legendary gift of the gab. Taken it from him, in one fell swoop. That morning, on his way to court, Cormac Laidir MacCarthy was told to kiss the very first stone he saw. And as he set off across the wide green expanse of lawn, a pebble landed at his feet. He looked upwards but the bright sun dazzled his eyes so much that he could see nothing, but as he shielded his eyes he could hear the sound of giant wings flapping. He picked up the pebble and kissed it, put it into his bag, went to court and spoke like the greatest bard the world has ever known.’
‘Did he win his case?’
‘He did indeed! Guilty though he was, he lied like an English politician and spoke with such eloquence, and with such honey in his words, that he was cheered and heralded when he won the case.’
‘He had the gift of the gab!’
‘Indeed. And when he stepped outside, his bag felt heavy on his back, so he took it off and opened it, and inside it he saw that the small pebble had been transformed into a large stone! And that stone he took and built into the parapet on one of the towers of Blarney Castle. And the legend goes that a little of the original magic lingers. So that all who now journey to kiss the Stone are gifted with an echo of the ancient spell of the goddess Cliodna.’
‘And what happened to Liam Delaney?’
‘Well now, it seemed his blessing was also his curse, because by kissing his stone he lost the power to deceive with eloquence.’
‘So what could he do?’ asked Siobhan.
‘He could only tell the truth.’
‘And was that so bad?’
Delaney smiled and ruffled his daughter’s hair. ‘Not at all. Because it turned out that Aoibheann Aghna Finbar
McCool was in truth one of the Sheoques herself and so was totally immune to the blandishments of a mortal man like Liam Delaney. It was the truth that won her heart, and Liam Delaney never regretted losing the gift of the gab because he had a far better gift in return for it.’
‘And what was that?’
‘The gift of love.’
‘Ahhh.’ Siobhan smiled and clapped her hands. ‘I like that story,’ she said and snuggled into her pillow, her eyes blinking as she fought to keep them open.
‘Go to sleep then, my little angel,’ said Delaney, smoothing her hair neat again.
‘But I thought you said we Delaneys didn’t need to kiss the Blarney Stone to have the gift of the gab.’
‘We don’t.’
‘But if Liam Delaney put the gift into the Stone, why is that, then?’
‘Because we are direct descendants of Liam Delaney and Aoibheann Aghna Finbar McCool. Herself a fairy of the magical hills of the ancient Kingdom of Desmond, and favourite cousin to the goddess Cliodna. And when the goddess saw how happy Liam had made her cousin, she gifted the magic back to his children, and so it has passed on through all the generations to his descendants.’
‘Does that mean you still have the gift to deceive without offending then, Daddy?’ Siobhan asked, stifling a yawn.
Delaney smiled again. ‘Ah no, in that respect I take after our great forefather Liam Colm. I am only capable of telling the truth.’
Siobhan smiled peacefully, and as her eyes closed she was asleep almost before they did so. The smile stayed on her lips.
However, Jack Delaney wasn’t smiling.
He was thinking about the last question his daughter had asked him, and what he had to do the next morning.
Thinking he had more in common with Cormac Laidir MacCarthy than he ever did with his smooth-talking, invented ancestor.
7.
Perivale. Half-past nine, Friday evening
GEOFFREY HUNT WAS feeling every one of his sixty-eight years.
He was a tall, thin man with a full head of once-dark hair that had gone iron-grey early in his fifties. His hair was silver now, shining, as he stood bathed in moonlight in front of the butler sink in his kitchen. He was looking out through the leaded-light window into his garden beyond. Staring into the middle distance, his grey eyes sad. Unblinking.