Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain

by Phil Rickman

  ‘I—’

  Merrily was hit by a memory of what she’d once seen Syd do to a young guy in the Malverns, when they’d needed information in a hurry. His famous evocation of the SAS buzz. The rush you get… when you convince yourself it’s not only justified but necessary. When you know that a difficult situation can only be resolved by an act of swift, efficient, intense and quite colossal violence.

  ‘We were soldiers,’ Byron said. ‘We knew about immediate action. We didn’t do turning the other cheek.’

  Annie Howe stood up.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m afraid I’ve been drinking too much coffee today. Ms Watkins?’

  Howe looked at the door and back at Merrily.

  ‘Oh.’ Merrily rose out of a fugged image of Syd Spicer smoking in his church on a summer’s day, knowing that his deity was entirely OK with that. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Byron leaned back, arms hanging down, limp as empty sleeves, so relaxed. The state of his teeth gave him a dark grin.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Mithras. He really lit Syd’s candle.’

  64

  Control

  ‘THIS ISN’T WORKING, is it?’ Howe said. ‘He’s tying you in knots.’

  ‘Sorry. Tired. Complicated day.’ Merrily backed off towards the top of the stairs. A wreck in sweater and jeans, no make-up, a woman who’d left home too quickly, a long time ago. ‘But I can certainly see why Byron agreed to be interviewed.’

  ‘Agreed?’

  Annie Howe moistened her lips, took a long breath, Merrily thinking that, despite the softening effects of early middle-age, they were never going to be friends. Too much rancid history.

  ‘It’s a set-up,’ Howe said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re here to look like a fool, I’m here to witness that. And Jones, quite clearly, is only here because it was suggested to him – presumably by Lockley – that it would be very much in his best interests to get his defence in first.’

  ‘Defence against what?’

  ‘With a view to pre-empting any possible police investigation of his activities. Damage limitation. And it’s working, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Well, it…’

  Out of Byron’s presence, the flaws in his argument were beginning to show. Here was Fiona: He told me Sam was making a terrible mistake in going into the church, that he was throwing away his life and damaging his country. Was that coming from a man who knew that Syd hadn’t forsaken Mithras?

  But what the hell would any of that matter to Howe or Lockley? This wasn’t about theology.

  A door opened, and DI Frannie Bliss appeared, cradling a mug of coffee.

  Annie Howe didn’t quite look at him.

  ‘No arrest yet, Francis?’

  Bliss said, ‘Good evening, Reverend.’

  He looked worse than this morning. A sweat-sheen on his freckled cheeks, feverish eyes.

  ‘We’re covering all the nightclubs, I suppose?’ Howe said.

  ‘Young coppers looking faintly ridiculous in clubbing kit. We’re also doorstepping all her so-called mates. As if anybody’s ever grassed Victoria up.’

  ‘Apart from your friend on the Plascarreg.’

  Bliss came out of the doorway like he was about to say something smart, then he shrugged.

  ‘Good point, actually. Increasingly, I’m wondering why Goldie Andrews did that.’

  ‘I thought you had her over a barrel. Cleverly manoeuvring her into a corner.’

  Howe’s voice rinsed in acid. Nothing changed, did it?

  ‘Maybe I was just too plain euphoric to ask some significant questions,’ Bliss said. ‘Think I’d better go back down the Plas, boss? On me own this time?’

  ‘No. Take Vaynor.’

  ‘He’s going clubbing.’

  ‘Then take care,’ Howe said coldly. ‘And be sure, when you eventually bring Buckland in, that she’s undamaged.’

  ‘That a joke, ma’am?’

  Bliss stepped back through the doorway, not looking at Annie Howe, as if he’d been expecting something from her that she hadn’t supplied. The atmosphere between them no sweeter than it had ever been.

  All this in front of a civilian. Merrily had a sense of unreality, nothing quite what it seemed. Even Annie Howe looked, for a moment, almost vulnerable as she turned away from the closing door, the white-gold hair pushed back behind the ears, the woolly riding up the back of the creased black skirt.

  She turned again to Merrily.

  ‘Those three men you mentioned to Jones…’

  ‘Nasal, you might remember him.’

  ‘Killed his wife, yes. You’re suggesting that whatever they and Jones and possibly Spicer had been doing had made them less in control of their aggression?’

  ‘I certainly think Syd was thinking along those lines. On the day it was in the paper that Nasal had hanged himself, he went to see Byron at his wife’s place in Allensmore. No violence on that occasion, just… harsh words.’

  ‘Harsh words.’ Howe shook her head. ‘Jones looks to me, Ms Watkins, like a man with a huge chip on his shoulder. But basically nothing to hide. Nothing that would be of particular interest to me, anyway.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  Merrily took a step back.

  No choice now.

  ‘I need to tell you something. Purely for information. If you take it any further at this stage, I’ll have to deny having said anything.’

  Annie Howe steered Merrily into an unoccupied office, a room without lights, and shut the door.

  ‘How sure are you of this?’

  ‘Sure as I can be without forensic evidence.’

  ‘Where’s Spicer’s wife now?’

  ‘No, listen, I’m telling you for clarification only. If she didn’t report it then, she isn’t going to say anything now.’

  ‘Why didn’t she report it?’

  ‘Because she knew how Syd would react and what that would do to his prospective career in the Church.’

  ‘You’re saying that, like all these other guys, Jones lost control?’

  ‘No, that’s the—He didn’t lose control, that’s the whole point. This was a rape in cold blood. I think Byron Jones raped Syd’s wife as an act of violence against Syd himself.’

  ‘And Spicer… did he know?’

  ‘It’s a good question.’

  ‘All right,’ Howe said, ‘tell me the rest – very briefly, we’ve been away too long. Tell me about the taking of bulls. I really can’t imagine that would be easy, unless the bull was sedated.’

  ‘I’m told that even in Roman times it would be sedated. Maybe it was even done in the field, if it was remote enough, I don’t know. Any kind of blood sacrifice is senseless and sickening to me, but it was done. And it looks like it still is.’

  ‘Only one man wields the knife?’

  ‘That would seem to be the idea. He emerges completely covered in the bull’s—What?’

  Annie Howe had the door held back, her eyes wide open to the lights.

  ‘We’ll go back.’

  65

  The God of the Regiment

  THE CONFERENCE ROOM was still half-lit, with the city murmuring below. Byron Jones was telling Lockley about the archaeology. The pattern from the sky.

  ‘How did you know?’ Lockley asked.

  ‘Discoloured ground. Paler grass in the shape of a rectangle. I kept very quiet about it, of course I did.’

  ‘Individual skills are crucial in the Regiment,’ Lockley said to Howe, ‘and Byron went on a photography course.’

  ‘Got the chopper pilot to go back over it,’ Byron said, ‘give us a closer look. Took some decent pictures, and later sent them to an archaeologist I knew – in Germany, as it happened – without identifying the location. He thought it was probable.’

  ‘So that’s why you went after the land. What did you use before that?’

  ‘We improvised. Caves, a disused reservoir. But to have the remains of an actual mithraeum…’
<
br />   ‘Exciting.’

  ‘Took everything I’d got, but I knew I’d never get another chance like this. Put the digger to work initially, but most of it was done by hand. Spent three months on it. Sifted all the soil, kept everything in little trays. Didn’t find much – bits of masonry, and a stone tablet, very worn. Handful of Roman coins. But that didn’t matter. It was confirmation, of a kind. And there were other pointers I won’t bore you with showing that this was part of a ritual landscape.’

  ‘You mean Credenhill and Brinsop Church.’ Merrily sat down. ‘And the alignments with other churches and ancient monuments.’

  ‘You have been doing your homework, Mrs Watson. I’m impressed. It’s not a Roman ritual landscape, we’re probably talking Neolithic. The Romans fitted in. In the way Christian churches would be built on Neolithic ritual sites. Pragmatic.’

  ‘So where is this mithraeum?’

  Byron tapped his nose.

  ‘Need to know,’ he said. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Was there much left?’

  ‘Some reconstruction was required. Another good reason to keep quiet about it.’

  Merrily glanced at Howe, who nodded.

  ‘Is this where the bulls are sacrificed, then?’ Merrily asked.

  Byron laughed. Leaning back from the table, his jacket open. Merrily thinking that, however old he was, he was still very fit, no paunch under the leather belt. And relaxed. Too relaxed for this situation.

  ‘Popular farmer murdered by former trooper off his trolley?’ Byron said. ‘How can we ever trust them again?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Am I missing something here?’

  ‘Byron’s been putting two and two together,’ Lockley said. ‘And making seven.’

  ‘That’s your big inquiry, isn’t it? Doesn’t take a genius.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Howe said, ‘you could tell us about the bulls you took.’

  ‘Rustling, too, eh?’ Byron said. ‘Is there no depth to which this scum won’t sink? Tell me, do you have any evidence of that?’

  ‘Do you deny ever taking a bull?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘But central to the practice of Mithraism,’ Merrily said. ‘Surely.’

  ‘It was, two thousand years ago. In the days before the slaughter of livestock was subject to regulations. Even then, there’d have to be a compromise as, according to the legend, Mithras personally hauls the bull to his cave.’

  ‘And how do you get over that problem?’

  ‘Meditative visualization. Do I need to explain that? All right, I will. The candidate is summoned to the mithraeum. He travels from wherever he lives, books into humble accommodation – or brings a tent – and spends a day in contemplation of his role, during which he’s permitted to drink water but must eat nothing. He bathes in a river, usually the Wye. He’s brought, blindfolded, to the mithraeum, where his comrades are gathered. The ritual begins.’

  ‘His comrades.’ William flipping him a glance. ‘Just so we know, anyone from the Lines involved in this?’

  ‘Not any more. Like I said when these ladies were powdering their noses, none of this need concern you, William. It started in the Regiment, just a few of us, now it’s moved on. I’m not saying it won’t come back one day, as long as the camp sits on Magnis.’

  Lockley glanced towards the window. He seemed unsettled, as though the world had skidded out of his mental grasp.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Merrily said. ‘“As long as the camp sits on Magnis”? When you were talking about a ritual landscape… with its own god. The god of the Regiment?’

  ‘By your rules, I’m an atheist.’

  For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Down in the city, a car horn blared.

  ‘It’s about mindset,’ Byron said. ‘You don’t know what I mean, do you? None of you. Not even you, William. Communism in your day, and the IRA. Now it’s men driven by religion, who don’t care what happens to them in this life or how they leave it. We could lose it this time, because we ain’t got the mindset.’

  ‘Byron,’ Lockley said, ‘we don’t do holy wars any more.’

  ‘You think the Crusades were holy, William? The Crusades served man’s need for extreme warfare.’

  ‘Mithras coming through,’ Merrily said.

  ‘Call it what you want.’

  Merrily put her head on one side, holding Byron’s electric blue gaze, hands clasped under the table.

  ‘Do you ever think you might be dealing here with something so powerful that while experienced soldiers like you might be able to handle it, civilians—’

  ‘Mrs Watson, you’re in no position to make any kind of qualified assessment.’

  ‘—might just become a little crazy?’

  ‘Come back to me when you’re better informed.’

  ‘Can I just ask… when did you last see Syd? Did you see him again after he came to Credenhill as chaplain?’

  No reply. Merrily thought she glimpsed a flaring rage in his eyes, blue lights in a ravaged landscape.

  ‘I’ve been wondering if you were the main reason why Syd felt he had to come back. Mithras and you, the demons from his past that he had to deal with.’ Merrily glanced at Howe. ‘Maybe he thought something still lived in him. Something repugnant that was buried so deep inside himself that he couldn’t reach it. Something he had to come back and deal with.’

  Winging it now. She felt quite dizzy, the room tilting, a throbbing in her chest. Byron was still looking at her, his hands either side of the chair ready to launch himself out of it. And in his eyes…

  He can enter you without moving, that man, one of the nurses had said.

  And then it was gone.

  Byron didn’t move.

  ‘Chief Inspector, why don’t I just give you a DNA swab, so you can compare it with whatever you found in Mansel’s yard?’

  ‘I still haven’t mentioned Mansel Bull,’ Annie Howe said.

  ‘Don’t treat me like a clown.’

  ‘You knew Mr Bull well?’

  ‘I was acquainted with Mansel and his… family.’ Byron blinked. ‘Mansel Bull. You’re making something out of it because his name’s Bull. That’s all this is. Am I right?’

  Howe said, ‘Do you know who killed Mansel Bull?’

  ‘How would I?’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that in this… virtual ceremony of the slaughter of the bull, it’s considered important that the candidate imagines himself covered in its blood?’

  ‘You can find all this in books and on the Net. But if you really think I’d go out and carve up a neighbour—’

  ‘Let’s end it there.’ Annie Howe began packing her laptop into her case. ‘I’m glad you felt able to open up to us, Mr Jones.’

  Byron didn’t look at her, or at Merrily. At the door, he glanced back.

  ‘I once thought of asking you to join us, William. When they package you off, maybe you should think about it. Bring you alive when you’re least expecting it. Unimaginable, mate.’

  ‘But purely a psychological thing,’ Merrily said. ‘Just a discipline.’

  William Lockley rose to his feet, flexing his shoulders.

  ‘Is there an offence of desecrating an historical monument, Annie? Because, as I see it, that’s all you’ve got.’

  ‘May not even be an ancient monument,’ Howe said.

  ‘He’s not your killer. That’s my opinion.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘It’s an oddball thing, but if he’s used it to turn around his fortunes, good luck to him. Though if he thinks it’ll ever be embraced by the Credenhill boys…’ At the door, Lockley turned, smiled. ‘Worthwhile exercise, ladies, and I may be in touch to clarify a few points. Anything you want from me, you know where I am.’

  Annie Howe strode across the room and shut the door firmly, stood with her back against it, her angular face unusually flushed.

  ‘What would Spicer’s reaction have been, do you think, on learning about th
e murder of Mansel Bull?’

  ‘I doubt it would’ve helped him sleep.’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you something else. We have a witness who saw a man in a field, on the night of the killing, drenched in blood and apparently high on the experience.’

  ‘High?’

  ‘Well, in a state of some apparent euphoria, according to our witness.’

  ‘Oh.’ Merrily stood up. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? Jones said he knew Mansel Bull and his… at which point he hesitated and then said family.’

  ‘I remember that, too.’

  ‘Mansel Bull didn’t have a family, as such,’ Howe said. ‘He had two ex-wives.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘And a brother.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you met Sollers Bull?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘He’s an ambitious man. Someone I suppose you’d call a member of the new countryside elite.’

  ‘Elite.’

  Annie Howe thought for moment.

  ‘Would you mind coming to meet him, if he’s available?’

  ‘Well, I… ’

  ‘Give me half an hour,’ Howe said. ‘Get yourself a cup of tea and a sandwich.’

  Merrily wound up crossing the street to the pizza place, grabbing a salad with hummus and couscous and a coffee. Sitting in the window with her phone, on which Neil Cooper had left a message with his home number.

  ‘Sorry, Neil, I was going to call you back, wasn’t I?’

  ‘If you remember, we got as far as Mithras. Magnis is very much my ongoing project, but I’ve been wondering all day if it’s conceivable that you know something I don’t.’

  ‘You can relax, I don’t really know anything. I would have asked you if there were any Mithraic remains in this area.’

  ‘Not… as far as we know. The fact is, although signs of Mithraic worship are common enough in Germany and Italy, evidence in the UK is rather sparser. You’re looking at four suggested centres of worship – London, York, Chester and Caerleon. Now, as it happens, the principal Roman road linking Caerleon, in South Wales, and Chester, on the northern border, passes through Credenhill.’