Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain

by Phil Rickman

  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 th
at?’

  ‘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.’

  Bliss was thinking of the Marinescus, the way one handbag had been emptied out at the scene, the other and its contents trailed all the way to the river.

  ‘I think you should get to bed, boss,’ Karen said. ‘An early start might be advisable.’

  44

  From the Killing House

  NO MORE THAN a third of the tables in the lounge bar were taken. Merrily had followed Jane to the one under the smallest leaded window, its old glass thick and fogged like frogspawn.

  ‘Cider?’

  ‘Please.’ Jane slid into the short bench under the window. Merrily bought two medium-sweet ciders from Barry, looking around for Lol. No sign. Barry gave her a mildly inquiring look; she leaned across the bar, voice lowered.

  ‘Liz was quite forthcoming, in the end. Though why I should tell you any of it, considering how much you didn’t tell me…’

  One side of Barry’s mouth twitched. Merrily carried the ciders back to the table. Shadows hung shiftily either side of the mullion.

  ‘So archaeology is, erm, history.’

  Jane didn’t smile.

  ‘It’s a joke, anyway. Archaeologists can’t get to grips with anything much any more, unless the council wants to do something crass with the land. And whatever they find, it still gets built over. I’d just keep getting annoyed.’

  ‘You’ll still keep getting annoyed if you don’t have any qualifications. The only difference is, you’ll be regarded as an annoying crank. No one will have to listen to you.’

  Jane shrugged. Merrily sipped cautiously at her cider.

  ‘Or maybe you’re worried that the world of archaeology isn’t yet sufficiently attuned to the concepts of Bronze Age geomancy and earth energies.’

  ‘You accept all that.’

  ‘Some of it. But I’m not an academic, just a jobbing C of E shaman in the ruins of Christianity.’

  ‘And you don’t believe that for one—’

  ‘Still wake up in the night in a cold sweat, watching a ghostly Dawkins coming through the wall.’

  Jane’s smile was a long way behind.

  ‘You won’t have to keep me. I’ll get some kind of job.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you will.’ Merrily thinking, don’t push it. Don’t get into an argument. Plenty of time yet. Well, there wasn’t, but… ‘Actually, I was going to ask you something. As you know more about the ancient world than I do. Though maybe Roman archaeology is not your thing.’

  ‘Prehistory, my thing. We know too much about the Romans. Anyway, Coops is your man, he’s well into the Romans. What were you going to ask me?’

  ‘Credenhill?’

  ‘Not Roman.’

  ‘No, but there was a Roman town below it.’

  ‘Magnis.’

  ‘All under farmland now, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but probably more extensive than they imagined. Credenhill? Is this something to do with Syd Spicer?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Merrily gazed into the inglenook, where the fire was in, just, the logs smoky grey and not apple. OK, here they were, mother and daughter, in the pub. Adults. Not much, if anything, she couldn’t discuss with Jane any more.

  ‘Syd was at Huw’s chapel last week, genning himself up on aspects of deliverance. We never found out what he was looking for. I need to find out whether that had any relevance to his death.’

  ‘Need to?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘You lead a very weird life, Mum.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What’s up with Barry? Why’s he keep looking at you?’

  ‘I think he wants to talk.’

  ‘But not with me here, right?’

  ‘He can wait.’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ Jane sank the last of her cider, slid to the end of the bench. ‘I need to call Eirion again. He’s coming over at the weekend. Staying tonight with his dad and his step-mum and then coming over to Hereford to see some mates from school, and then…’

  ‘He wants to stay with us?’

  ‘If that’s OK. I said I’d meet him in Hereford tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘It’s always OK. But are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK. I’m glad we…’

  ‘Always remember we’re on the same side,’ Merrily said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Yeah. I do. Thanks for the drink, Mum. And like… thanks for… you know… not biting my head off.’

  And she was gone, leaving Merrily deeply unsettled. Thanks for not biting my head off? Had she really said that? Jane?

  A new glass and a bottle of Brecon spring water arrived on the table. Barry slipped into Jane’s seat.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d want another cider, but I can go back.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. Thank you. How much do I—?’

  ‘On the house.’ Barry nodded towards the fire door, through which Jane had left. ‘Problems there?’

  ‘Jane’s a bit… overwrought about proposals for the village. Can’t help thinking she’s heard something about Savitch and the Swan. Not from me.’

  ‘Nice when a kid bothers about heritage.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it is. Never felt part of anywhere before, and so if she thinks anyone’s trying to damage it…’ Merrily poured out some water. ‘I suppose you want to know how I got on with Liz. Put it this way, I’ve learned more than enough in the course of the day to support your opinion that Byron Jones is a man to be avoided if at all possible.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it may not be possible, so I’d quite like you to tell me everything you were keeping quiet about last night. “They’re dead,” Barry. “All dead now.” What’s that mean?’

  Barry wasn’t drinking tonight. He glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Could mean a lot of things.’

  ‘I could go and ask James Bull-Davies, and he’d ask William Lockley, and Lockley would feed it back up the line.’

  ‘And five weeks later James would come back and tell you your question was inappropriate.’ Barry looked down into his cupped hands on the tabletop. ‘Remind me which of us started all this, Merrily, and then tell me how necessary it is to go on with it.’

  Merrily moistened her lips with spring water.

  ‘Can we go back to when you said Byron had changed. Last night, you suggested he’d become abnormally ruthless. When did that happen?’

  Barry looked around again. Nobody was close.

  ‘I’d say there was a change in him after the Iranian Embassy operation.’

  ‘But I thought he wasn’t—’

  ‘I know he wasn’t. But he thought he should’ve been. Missed out on all the acclaim. No kiss from Maggie Thatcher.’ Barry shrugged. ‘Luck of the draw, but he didn’t see it that way.’

  Merrily remembered watching it live on TV. A sunny early evening in London, a very public operation. Normal TV programmes cancelled for the final act of the big news story of the week. Half the nation gathered round the box as cameras tracked the masked men abseiling down from the roof, into the embassy where six terrorists were holding twenty-six hostages. Smoke bombs going off. All but one of the hostages rescued, all but one of the terrorists killed. Shot dead, with practised efficiency, by the boys from Hereford, some of whom, even now, were only ever filmed in silhouette. James Bond for real, and it had turned soldiers into superstars.

  ‘When you say the luck of the draw…?’

  ‘They just pulled the boys from the Killing House. It’s all in the public domain now. There’s this training building they call the Killing House, where we practised how not to shoot the good guys by mistake. Word comes through there’s
a job in London, they pick the boys who’ve just completed that aspect of their counter-terrorism training. Driven out of Hereford, down to London in the white Range Rovers.’

  ‘Frank Collins was one, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Did the smoke bombs.’

  ‘Why did Byron think he’d been passed over?’

  ‘Because maybe he was. I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t there, but he might’ve made some small error of judgement in the Killing House or elsewhere. Situation like that, you can’t afford the smallest mistake. A guy who was closer to him than me, he reckoned Byron was convinced he’d been dropped because they thought he didn’t have the bottle for it. That was how he seemed to have translated it.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t even selected for the SAS unless your courage—’

  ‘He’s the kind of guy gets fixations. Even the Regiment can’t alter your personality. Something drove him further into himself and into his training. Personal training. He never stopped. No more social life for Byron. When he got married, we’re thinking, where’d she come from?’

  ‘Syd wasn’t in the embassy operation, was he? Even peripherally?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. And, before you ask, most of the embassy boys are still alive.’

  ‘Can you think why Byron might have wanted to live near Credenhill?’

  ‘Don’t make much sense to me. He never served there.’

  Merrily poured out more spring water.

  ‘Barry, what are you not telling me?’

  ‘Blimey, vicar… Look… all right… it would be silly to say no psycho ever got into the Regiment… although selection does weed them out.’

  ‘You think he’s psychotic?’

  ‘I’m not qualified to make a mental-health assessment. It’s my understanding – and for Christ’s sake, keep this totally to yourself – he was later seen by army psychiatrists.’

  ‘You know why?’

  ‘Um… yeah, I do, more or less. Same rules?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I wasn’t there when this happened, either, but it was an exercise in the Beacons, where you’re divided into two opposing sides. It’s about fitness and tactics and ingenuity – thinking on your feet. In reality you’re on the same side. You know where it stops. Or you should do.’