Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain (8 page)

‘Mansel Bull,’ he said. ‘Farmer. Machete job, Billy Grace reckons.’

‘I know,’ the DCI said. ‘I’ve just talked at length to Stagg.’

Addressing his superior, Bliss felt acutely strange. Up to a few months ago, he was routinely editing his thoughts before opening his mouth.

‘Sollers Bull,’ Annie Howe said. ‘That would be…?’

‘Gobby hunt supporter nicked by the Met for pouring red paint on John Prescott’s second-best Jag.’

‘Fighting for his heritage. A hero.’

‘Malicious damage is malicious damage, Annie. And still a cocky twat. Who, as you can imagine, doesn’t like the police much. Especially me.’

‘Stagg said.’

They’d been in the remains of Bliss’s sitting room when the first call came through. Kirsty’s old man had been in with Kirsty’s key while Bliss was at work and had nicked the flame-effect fire. Bliss had been filling a paraffin stove when Terry Stagg had come through on Annie’s mobile.

Be more convenient for DI Bliss
.

True enough, in that Bliss was nearer the door. Whenever Annie came round she’d arrive just after dusk, leaving her car in a cul-de-sac two streets away. Strategic. Kirsty was right. If it came out, one of them could end up behind a desk in Carlisle.

No guesses which.

‘We need to watch Stagg,’ Bliss said. ‘Ma’am.’

Hadn’t yet said a word to her about Kirsty’s suspicions. Best to keep quiet until he knew for sure that the bitch wasn’t flying a kite.

‘What else did Sollers Bull say, Francis?’

‘Reckons it was a robbery gone wrong. All but accusing migrant workers from the fruit farm across the road.’

Figuring this might rattle Annie’s PC cage a little.

‘That would be Magnis Berries?’

‘That what it’s called?’

‘Named after what was a Roman town,’ Annie said, ‘which used to stand somewhere round there. How close is it to Oldcastle?’

‘Half a mile? I doubt there are many people employed there now. Probably not even got the polytunnels up yet. You think we should go in, see what vehicles they’ve got?’

‘Check it out discreetly tomorrow. Maybe find out if anyone’s in charge. During the season, it could be the biggest centre of population between there and Leominster.’

‘Yeh, OK.’ Bliss sat watching the bare brown hedge, like a complex circuit board in his headlights. ‘What time will you get back tomorrow?’

She was in court at Worcester: three brothers accused over the near-fatal stabbing of a father-in-law.

‘Verdict early next week. I might look in on you tomorrow, but no point in me getting involved if I’m back in court on Monday. You pleased?’

‘Made-up, Annie. Where are you now?’

‘Home. Thought it was best.’

‘What about tomorrow night?’ he said.

‘I’m not sure.’

See, that was what he was scared of, too. The idea that something which neither of them had expected to last… really wouldn’t last.

‘Didn’t catch that, Annie,’ Bliss said. ‘I keep losing the signal.’

S
YD
S
PICER HAD
the fire going nicely in the parlour.

‘This looks like sycamore,’ he said to Huw. ‘Good burner, easy ignition. And a bit of oak to keep it going all night. Well-dry, too.’

‘Stored for three years, the oak,’ Huw said with disinterest.

Merrily was observing Syd. Hyper. Striding around Huw’s Victorian parlour then diving at the fireplace and rearranging a log to funnel the flames. The pensive figure in the darkest part of the chapel –
that
had been the Syd Spicer she knew: this was not. Same voice, though, flat as old lino.

She looked at Huw in his leaking armchair, his face mapped by shadows. The parlour was still in winter mode, with two baskets of logs and a heavy curtain drawn across the main door. Whitewashed walls ochred with smoke.

‘Tell you what…’ Syd was back on his feet. ‘I’m just thinking, if you’ve got a chainsaw, Huw, we could get Merrily out.’

She sat down on the sofa. If he wanted her out, she no longer wanted to go. Sunk into the ruins of his armchair, Huw shook his head.

‘Take you bloody hours on your own, lad, in the dark. Dangerous, even on your terms.’ He started easing off his walking boots. ‘Make your calls, Merrily. Ring Jane. You’ll only be on edge. Go in t’kitchen. Rayburn’s on.’

‘I’ve no big secrets.’ Merrily looked at Syd, then back at Huw. ‘But if you two want to talk… Can I make you some tea?’

‘Aye, that’d be nice. Two sugars for me.’

She’d never been in Huw’s kitchen before, and it was a small surprise: clean, and not as basic as you’d imagine. New pine cupboards and a larder fridge. Odd domestic touches – spice rack, even. Feminine touches. Maybe his cleaner? There was no woman in Huw’s home, as far as she knew. Not since the death of Julia, the love of his later life.

The Rayburn was doing warm, throaty noises. She filled the kettle, found the pack of Yorkshire tea bags then called the vicarage on her mobile. Answering machine. Called Jane’s mobile: answering service. Called Lol at his cottage in Church Street: no answer, no machine.

Bugger. Since the great Christmas flood, Ledwardine had seemed vulnerable in a way it never had before. Changing times, a climate in destructive flux. Jane… variable. Something not quite right, lately. She rang Jane’s mobile back, left a message: ‘
Just call me
.’

Syd had a daughter, too, around Jane’s age and problematical. For once, he seemed to want to talk about her.

‘Em’s been clean for most of a year. Though we remain watchful.’

Stretching in his chair. Couldn’t seem to keep still. He’d shown no actual surprise when she’d turned up with Huw, but then he wouldn’t. But watchful, oh yes. He always would be, until his teddy bear’s eyes were closed by someone else.

‘Where’s she now, Syd?’

‘Back home. With Fiona.’

‘Which is still down south?’

‘For the present.’

Syd was from some part of London, his wife from Reading. He’d virtually promised her they’d go south when he came out of the army, but his ordination had changed everything, the way it often did. And, like so many SAS men, he’d grown fond of the place that he’d kept coming back to with his mission scars.

Only problem being that, by the time Syd had become a curate there, Hereford had developed its own little drug culture,
and Emily was a born addict. No safer, as it turned out, in Malvern. In the end, Fiona Spicer had taken her back to Reading in manacles, while Syd, bound by his faith, had stayed on.

‘But it’s going to be all right.’ Syd sat with his hands clasped between his knees, staring into the fire, rocking slightly. ‘It’s working out.’

‘You’re finally leaving Wychehill?’

‘I’ve left.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Not been gone long.’

‘So, erm…’

‘Oh God.’ Syd stretched his socks towards the flames. ‘I know what you want, Merrily, and I really can’t help you. Hands are tied. You know how it is.’

‘Not really.’

Huw sniffed, sank lower into his chair. In the poor light, its leaking stuffing was the colour and texture of his hair.

‘Bloody old Huw,’ Syd said, like Huw wasn’t there. ‘He’s a cunning bastard. Can’t say I wasn’t warned. Hasn’t explained, has he?’

‘What?’ Merrily didn’t look at Huw. ‘I’m not getting any of this, Syd. Either you’re taking over my job and they haven’t told me yet…’

‘I wouldn’t go near your job in a radiation suit, Merrily. It’s simply that where I am now makes direct consultation with anybody outside of certain circles… inadvisable, at best.’

‘You
are
still in the Church?’

‘To a point.’

‘Jesus,’ Huw said tiredly. ‘Weren’t for me to tell her. He’s gone back where he came from, lass.’

‘What, the…?’

‘Bit irregular,’ Syd said. ‘The Regiment doesn’t like old warriors crawling back. Nobody wants a loser who can’t cut it on the outside, with a yen to start jumping out of helicopters again, but the current guy did his back in on an exercise, and they needed a stand-in for a while.’

‘They’ve made you…?’

‘Temporary chaplain.’ Syd plucked his mug from the chair arm. ‘Saves sending a civilian on the Vicars and Tarts for the sake of a few months.’ He smiled. ‘That’s the course they have at Sandhurst for clergy new to the army.’

He leaned back, his eyes half-closed.

‘Interesting times. Not often commented on, but the growth of the secular society’s not good news as regards the Regiment. Especially when you’re dealing with an enemy that welcomes martyrdom.’

‘Taliban.’

‘Among others.’

Syd sat up, drank some tea, leaned back again, pushing out his feet to the fire. He’d once told Merrily that there was a harsh kind of mysticism at the heart of the SAS. Something to do with the miracle of survival against immeasurable odds. Ninety per cent training and preparation, nine per cent luck and one per cent something you’d call on at breaking point. The lantern in the storm.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Syd said. ‘First rule – don’t throw the Big Feller in their faces.’

Merrily nodded. It made sense.

‘Always a surface cynicism about all things religious,’ Syd said. ‘Which is healthy. But, in the end, these are not ordinary soldiers. They live by a very strong faith. Faith in themselves, faith in their mates. There’s also what you might call a monastic quality, and if a particular kind of inner spark is allowed to go out, they’re open to a certain creeping disillu—
Shit!
’

Syd jerked his feet back from the hearth. His socks were smouldering. He stamped his feet lightly on the edge of the hearth, then rubbed them together and carried on talking.

‘If you come over too evangelical, you’re well stuffed. But you do have to come over like a priest, not a mate. They’ll always respect an expert.’

‘This mean you sometimes have to go abroad with them, Syd?’

‘You make your own decisions on where you might be needed.’

‘I mean, how dangerous is it for a priest? Stupid question?’

‘Frustrating more than dangerous. If threatened, for instance, you must never resist or exercise violence. You go willingly into captivity. And no shooters. What’s kind of amusing, if you go on exercise with the boys, they don’t like to think you’re getting off with light kit, so they give you a cross to carry, size of an old Heckler and Koch nine-mil.’

‘And if it’s touch and go, lad,’ Huw said, ‘wi’ a crazed Taliban warlord?’

Syd let his chin sink into his chest, peered up, coy.

‘Every SAS chaplain worth his kit knows thirty-seven ways to kill with a wooden cross.’

There was a silence. The elephant in the room had a big D tattooed on its hide. Merrily sipped her tea, looking for an approach.

‘Why did you want to do it?’

‘It was the right time. Iraq, Afghanistan. War, but not the kind of war people care about. You hear a lot about the dead, but not much about the damaged.’ Syd put a thumb to his head. ‘Up here, you know? The NHS got no answer to that – not much of one, anyway.’

‘You think you can help?’

‘In a small way. Makes me feel more useful than… you know…’

‘A parish.’

‘It’s still a parish. Except this is one where I can see the point of it.’

‘You’re based at Credenhill?’

‘Army villa, fully equipped.’

‘On your own?’

‘For the present. However, Emmy’s no longer at college. On account of being four months pregnant.’

‘Oh.’

‘Nah…’ Syd sat up. ‘It’s good. This is the
good
thing. She gets
married beginning of May – to a boy who’ll soon be a baby barrister, how perfect is that? Then Fiona moves back in and we get to think about a future.’

‘Well.’ Merrily smiled. ‘Things do turn around, don’t they?’

‘Told you it was OK to smoke in church.’

He wasn’t smiling, he was wearing a smiley mask. He didn’t seem frightened, though. He seemed in control.

Right, then
…

‘So, Syd… you’re here because you have a deliverance issue related to your SAS ministry?’

‘Blimey.’ Syd stretched his arms over his head. ‘Is that the time?’

There wasn’t a clock in here and probably insufficient light to see his watch. Syd was on his feet.

‘Samuel Dennis Spicer.’ He yawned. ‘Church of England. As was. Goodnight, all.’

T
HE LOGS HAD
reddened and collapsed into glowing splinters, the air outside fallen to near-stillness. Merrily stood up and went to the window. Across the valley, clouds had cleared and the hills were moon-bleached, but you couldn’t see the tip of Pen-y-fan the way you could from the chapel.

‘Of course,’ Huw said from the sunken chamber of his chair. ‘You’re a woman.’

‘We all have our cross to bear.’

‘They don’t have women in the SAS.’

‘You’re saying that’s why he won’t talk to me?’

‘He’s back in the army, his ministry’s governed by the buttoned-up bastards in the MoD. Not that he said much to me, either.’

‘An evil. What do you think that might be? As I recall, that’s not one of his words. He doesn’t do melodrama. But, yeah, I can see why you might think he’s scared. He’s a bit manic, isn’t he?’

‘You’re hardly going to see him trembling or keep running to the bog.’ Huw sat up, reached down to the hearth for the pot and poured more tea. ‘But, aye, that fact that he’ll say nowt to you more or less confirms it. It
is
Regiment-related. So very much on your patch.’

‘Although it
has
moved since Syd was a soldier.’

In Syd’s time, the Regiment had still been based on the southern edge of the city where it had been established during World War Two by an army colonel, David Stirling. The camp
known ever since as Stirling Lines. Still producing highly trained commando units, parachuting in to operate behind enemy lines. That famous motto:
Who Dares Wins
.

Strangely, in the city, it had been more anonymous. The townsfolk part of a conspiracy of silence. But now it had moved a few miles out, to the former RAF base at Credenhill. Now everybody knew where to find the SAS: out in the sticks, with a high fence and armed guards.