Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death
Page 31
‘There are plenty more where they came from, my sexy little sleuth. Always a rich crop of fucked-up middle-class girls to harvest. I’m doing a public service. I should be available on the NHS.’ He leant down, almost nose to nose with Jess. ‘You know how it goes, Jess. I take up the slack for all the stern daddies and their struggling little girls who grow up not sure if they’re loved or not.’
She drew back. ‘I hear you’re being evicted at last. No-more times has arrived, just like you said.’
‘You heard wrong. I bought the lease to Pitt’s Field. Here to stay, my deario.’
‘What did you buy it with? Magic beans?’
‘My last loyal and faithful disciple sorted out all the sordid money stuff. Here she comes now.’
Caroline didn’t make eye contact with Jess as she handed Pan a pint.
‘You’re joking, Caro. You bought the field?’ Jess persisted until her old friend gave in and looked at her.
‘You don’t understand.’ Caroline was sullen.
‘You’re right, I don’t. Where’s Delphi?’
‘There.’ Caroline gestured downwards. Delphi, nose runny, clothes jumble-sale, was curled up on the pub carpet. Caroline lowered her chin. ‘I’m number one, now. Not number three.’
‘Only because numbers one and two had the good sense to get the hell out. Caro, please!’
‘Don’t call her that. You’re not friends anymore.’ Pan pulled Caroline to him. ‘I’m all she needs. We’re rebuilding. We are conduits to the supernatural, the pagan.’
Jess said, ‘Actually, come to think of it, it’s weird that we should have this conversation on the feast day of Sala.’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Pan.
‘Sala, the Wolf of Love. Offspring of Viggo and Serkis.’
‘The Wolf of Love!’ Pan threw back his head and howled. Heads swivelled. Eddie popped up above the crowd, alert for trouble. ‘I celebrate his feast day every year.’
‘Caroline,’ said Jess, leaning in. ‘Sala, Viggo and Serkis are three of the actors in Lord of the Rings.’
‘Bitch.’ The word struck Jess as she turned away.
A glass was pressed into her hand.
‘On the house.’ Eddie winked as he passed. ‘Only Coke. It should be champagne. Good work, love.’
Eddie never gave anybody a drink on the house.
Except me, thought Jess. She swam back towards Rupert. Towards the back of his head. It was distinctive, with its chipper hair.
‘See you tomorrow?’ Moyra’s flushed face was in Jess’s. ‘For your usual? A nice hot chocolate and a natter.’
‘No, Moyra.’ Jess thought of her one pathetic bag, sitting packed on the rug by her bed.
Concerned, Moyra opened her mouth to say something. The women locked eyes. She thought better of it. Patted Jess’s arm instead.
As the throng finally parted and delivered Jess to Rupert, Mary sprang up from his lap. ‘Here you go. Just keeping him warm for you. Me and Moose are off to the Druid’s Head. Better class of bloke there, by which I mean worse, if you see what I mean.’
Jess did, and wished she didn’t. ‘Mary.’ She followed her to the door. ‘Why are you staying in Castle Kidbury? I don’t get it.’
‘You don’t, do you, you eejit. This place is gas now the serial killers are gone. People travel the world to find a town like this, and it’s your home. You do what you like, but I’m staying put.’ She took Jess’s chin in her hand. ‘I do love you, you wassock,’ she said, and kissed her on the forehead. Moose barked. Mary whooped. They were gone.
‘Over here!’ The designated coppers’ table was by the door.
‘Here she is!’
‘Cheers, Miss Marple!’
It was the fag end of the evening. They were all past their sell-by date. Except for Detective Constable Karen Knott. Crisp in chain-store jeans. Sipping a sherry. A daring dot of lipstick. ‘You broke every rule in the book,’ she said. ‘Next time you might not be so lucky.’
‘There won’t be a next time.’ The Morris Traveller was filled up with petrol. A note to the Judge had been written, with a PS for Bogna.
‘I still think Squeezers had something to do with—’
‘Shush, Knott!’ Eden stood up. He was tipsy. Just a touch; his tie was undone. This was tantamount to a state of undress.
Jess perceived a distance between John Eden and the rest of the boys in blue. He wasn’t one of the guys.
‘Helena’s been refused bail,’ he said.
‘Shit. Why? She’s hardly a threat to the community.’
‘You say that, Jess, but she crucified a neighbour.’ Eden rubbed the back of his head. The hair fluffed up. This would not happen if beer had not been taken. ‘I wish there was something I could do for her, but my part’s over.’
‘A tragedy twenty years in the making. Four lives ended.’
‘And many more ruined. A murder,’ said Eden, swaying slightly, ‘is a pebble dropped in a puddle. The ripples last forever.’ He seemed as surprised as Jess at this foray into philosophy. He downed a squat glass of something yellowish. ‘Time to reintroduce myself to my house.’
‘I can’t imagine you at home.’ Jess tried. Armchair. TV. Nest of tables. Nope. ‘You’re a copper through and through.’ She smiled. She would miss him. ‘A good copper.’
‘Maybe.’ The whites of Eden’s eyes were pink. He slurred slightly when he said, into her ear, ‘But you’re the real deal, Jess.’ He pulled away, brushing her arm with his hand. ‘You read people. You get stuff.’ He paused to sigh. ‘You have solid-gold instincts.’
‘What happened to Mr Procedure? Isn’t policing about science and footwork and putting the hours in?’
‘Police work, yeah.’ A sober Eden would never say ‘yeah’. ‘Mysteries, though, need intuition. Don’t quote me, but you’re a natural, Jess Castle.’
He said goodnight. He left.
Jess pushed people out of her way and grabbed Rupert by the arm. He spilled his drink. She dragged him outside.
Chapter 36
THE HANDS ON THE CLOCK GO ROUND AND ROUND
Early hours of Sunday 5 June
If the stone circle was a clock, Jess and Rupert were the hands. They lay at a slight angle to each other. Quarter past two, their bodies said.
Which was about the correct time.
On the car journey to the sacred spot, Jess had realised that Rupert was drunker than she’d thought. A non-drinker, she was used to the strange acceleration in a companion’s intoxication. At some point in an evening out, she would diverge from them. They would laugh at bad jokes. Lust after unpicturesque strangers. Sing.
Rupert wasn’t quite at that stage. He was soft-eyed. Merry. Likely to say more than he should.
‘So,’ he said, as they looked up, their gaze penetrating millions of light years into the navy sky. ‘Sooooo . . .’ Rupert drew out the word until it sounded absurd. They both laughed. ‘So,’ he repeated, keeping it short. ‘Mary’s decided to hang around.’
‘No accounting for what Mary does.’
‘Yeah, so, well.’ Rupert swallowed audibly. ‘I s’pose . . . I mean . . .’
‘Are you this eloquent in court?’
‘Do you . . . us . . . is this . . .’
‘Spit it out, Rumpole.’
‘You sure you want me to? Do you really want me to spit it out, Jess?’
‘Up to you.’
There was no sound except the rustles and whispers of the night closing in on itself.
Could Rupert feel the charge in the earth? Jess’s body hummed. She had read many theories about stone circles. Most concerned energy. The ancients believed the circles harnessed it, that the stones bounced it back and forth. Growing. Redoubling.
Jess could only look sideways at the possibility that the electric charge was one she and Rupert brought with them. That their silence fed it.
Finally, Rupert spoke. ‘Moose did a poo right by the billiard table.’
Jess was relie
ved at the change of subject. She was also insanely disappointed. ‘He knows better than that, the naughty boy.’
They talked of Moose’s manners. Of the chances – high, they agreed – that Mary had pulled by now. Of the amazing-ness of the moon. Rupert didn’t return to the train of thought that had run off the rails.
The energy waned.
‘Are you damp?’ Rupert tutted. Stood up. Swatted at his backside. ‘I’m damp. Sodding grass. We should make a move, Jess.’
She stayed put. Stretched out. Hands behind head. Eyes closed. Moonbathing. ‘Maybe I should stick around for a bit. For Dad. Work out what’s up with Stephen. Help Mary with the stupid barn.’
Somehow, she could hear Rupert’s grin.
He lay back down. He whistled ‘Wooden Heart’.
The energy began to thrum again.
Jess smiled up at the moon. I’m a natural, she thought. I’m a bloody natural.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So many people are involved in the creation of a book. We want especially to thank Jo Dickinson, for leaping on the idea and asking only, ‘How fast can you give me three chapters?’ Jo, you are the epitome of an editor and you are appreciated in these particular writers’ garret.
Sara-Jade Virtue, you’re the best. No, shut up. You are.
Writers know what other writers need when it comes to encouragement and support and commiseration, and we get all those from Kate Furnivall, Chris Manby, Penny Parkes, and Lucy Dillon. Civilians who figure high in our List of Gratitude include Kate Haldane, Bogna Rasmussen, Sonia Lopez-Freire, Steve and Jozette Lee, and Tim Payne.
And you. The reader. Without whom this would all be for nothing. Thank you.
M.B. Vincent is a married couple. She writes romantic fiction; he writes songs and TV theme tunes. They’ve even written musicals together. They work at opposite ends of the house, and they meet in the middle to write about Jess Castle and Castle Kidbury, the West Country’s goriest market town. When they’re not making up books, tunes and mysteries, they head out in an open-top car and explore. They particularly like West Country market towns . . .
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2018
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Copyright © Just Grand Partnership, 2018
The right of M.B. Vincent to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6823-9
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