The Man in the Moss (35 page)

           
She
started the engine, switched on the lights, wound down the window- 'By the way.
Your playing, it was ... Well, you're getting there.'

           
'I
don't want to get there,' he said without emotion. 'I just wanted to please
him.'
           
'Aye,' Moira said.
           
'It never did, though.'

           
'No,'
she said.

           
A
dumpy, elderly man walked through the headlamp beams. He wore a long raincoat
and a trilby bat, like Donald's, only in better shape. 'Good evening,' he said
politely, as he passed.

The lights were on in the church, am be ring the
pillars in the nave. A suitcase stood by the font.

           
Ernie
Dawber watched the new curate manhandling a metal paraffin stove into the
vestry.

           
'All
right, lad?'

           
Joel
Beard, alarmed, set down the stove with a clang.

           
'Ernie
Dawber, lad. We met the other day, with Hans.'

           
'Ah,
yes.' The curate recovered, stood up straight. He was wearing his cassock and
the huge pectoral cross. 'Look, I'm sure you mean well, Mr Dawber, but I'd
rather not discuss anything tonight,
 
if
you don't mind.'

           
'Beg
your pardon?'

           
'The
funeral, Mr Dawber. What happened at the funeral. You were about to tell me how
innocuous it all was. I'm saying I'd rather not discuss it.'

           
'Well,
I think we
should
discuss it, Mr
Beard. Because it looks like you're in charge now.'

           
Joel
Beard looked bewildered. He'd obviously rushed away from the graveside, dashed
down to his little cell to recover and didn't yet know about Hans.

           
Ernie
told him.

           
'Oh,'
Joel said. 'Oh, my Lord.'
           
'Aye.'

           
'Is
he going to be all right?'

           
'Happen,'
said Ernie. 'If he gets some rest. If he doesn't spend all his time worrying
what the bloody hell's going on back in Bridelow.'

           
Joel
Beard gave him a hard look for swearing in church.
           
'Now look, lad,' Ernie said.
'Pull yourself together. You're not really going to kip down there?'

           
'I
am.' Joel rested an arm on the edge of the font. 'It's quite clear to me that
it's become even more important to sleep in God's pocket. You were there today,
I think, Mr Dawber. You saw what went on.'

           
'I
saw a big, soft bugger making a bloody fool of himself,' said Ernie stoutly.
'Now, come on, it's getting cold. Pick up your suitcase; you can stay in my
spare room for tonight, and we'll have a bit of a chat.'

           
Joel
Beard made no reply. He stood very call and very still, the amber lights
turning his tight curls into a golden crown.

           
'Good
night, Mr Dawber,' he said.

The double doors crashed back. Roger Hall burst in, and
he was white to the edges of his beard.

           
Chrissie
was sitting at her desk, the senior detective, Ashton, casually propping his
bum against it, hands deep into his trenchcoat pockets, the detective-sergeant
playing with the zip on his anorak.

           
Roger
just stood in the doorway breathing like a trainee asthmatic. He was wearing
casual gear, the polo shirt and the golfing trousers. 'All right, what's
happened?' Staring all round the room and finally noticing her. 'Chrissie ...
?'

           
'Don't
look at
me
like that, Dr Hall. I know
less than you.' Obviously. Being the minion.

           
'How
much did they tell you on the phone, Dr Hall? Ashton asked, corning to his
feet.

           
'Just
... Just that ... Is this on the level? It s not a joke?'
           
Ashton shook his head.
'Doesn't look like it, I'm afraid sir.
           
Roger glared across the office
at the metal door. It was shut. 'It's unbelievable.' Shaking his head. 'What
happened to the so-called security patrol?'

           
'We'll
be talking to the company, sir, have no doubts.
           
Meantime, we didn't like to
touch anything until you got here, so it you'd be good enough to take us
through ...'

           
Roger
nodded dumbly. Chrissie was almost feeling sorry for him. His face was like a
crumpled flour bag. He looked like a parent who'd just learned his child had
been found on a

railway line. In fact, to him, if somebody had
vandalized his beloved bogman, this was probably worse

           
Which
is why Chrissie didn't
quite
feel
sorry for him.

           
The
two detectives, Ashton and the chubby one in the anorak, waited while Roger
went to unlock his personal high-security cabinet. He brought out both keys.
The detectives followed him to the ante-room and then all three of them went
through to the inner lab.

           
Chrissie
stayed behind, elbows on her desk, chin propped in her hands, waiting for the
eruption. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry on his behalf.

           
'No...!'
Roger's voice echoing back. 'Look ...Inspector, is it?'

           
'Gary
Ashton, sir. Greater Manchester.'

           
'I'm
... I just can't
believe
this has
happened. What I ... Look, let me do some checks. It's possible ... unlikely,
but possible ... that there's a rational explanation. I've been away for a few
days this week. It's conceivable, I suppose, that something was arranged and by
some incredible oversight I wasn't informed.'

           
'You
mean whoever it was forgot to inform the caretaker they'd be dropping in, sir?
After dark?'

           
'No.
You're right. Clutching at straws, I suppose. God almighty, this is ... How did
they actually get in?'

           
'Quite
professionally done, sir. The rear doors were forced, both sets, but forced by
somebody who knew how, if you see what I mean.'

           
'It's
... unbelievable.'

           
Chrissie
heard a clang. Roger's fist hitting the metal table.
           
'If you wouldn't mind, sir ...
fingerprints.'
           
'Sorry. It's just ... if
anything, any one thing, had been specifically calculated to fucking
ruin
me, this ..
           
'Ruin you, Dr Hall?'

           
'I...
We had a lot riding on it. You don't get your hands on one of these very
often.'

           
'How
valuable would you say? I mean, I realise you can't ...'

           
'
In
valuable. And yet nor valuable at all
to most people. You could hardly stick it in your hall like a Rodin. It's
beyond me, the whole thing. And yet ...'
           
Chrissie's head shot up out of
her hands.
Never!

           
'Well,
sir, I expect you have photographs. I'll also need to know what kind of vehicle
would be required, assuming it has been removed from immediate area.'

           
Bloody
hell!
Chrissie stood up. She
found she was shaking.
           
'We'll obviously be searching
the grounds pretty thoroughly. But if you wanted to get it away without
damaging it ...would it need any special conditions? Refrigeration?

           
'It's
in peat. Inspector. Peat's a preservative. That's how he survived for two
thousand years.'

           
'Of
course. Sorry. Stupid of me. Anyway ... We're clearly not looking for young
tearaways here, so have you any idea, any notion at all, who in the wide world
would go to so much trouble to ...'

           
'Steal
a two-thousand-year-old corpse.'

           
'Old
as that? Well. Wouldn't be much use for medical research then? So what are we
looking for? Bit of a nutter? A rich eccentric collector? I'll be honest, Dr
Hall, I've not come across anything quite like this. It's a one-off.'

           
'It's
unbelievable,' Roger said for about the fifteenth time, and Chrissie heard him
pacing the echoing empty lab.

CHAPTER II

The girl who opened the Rectory door was sipping red
soup off the top of an overflowing mug. She watched both of them cautiously
over the rim.
           
'Sorry,' Dic said. 'It's an
awkward time.'
           
She swallowed hot soup,
winced. 'No problem. I'm on my own.'

           
'That's
what I thought. We, er, we needed somewhere to talk ... Sorry ... your dad, is
he ... How is he?'

           
'They
say it's a minor heart attack.' Tomato soup adhering to her lips. 'I'm not
allowed to see him until tomorrow, he has to have rest. Ma Wagstaff says not to
worry. He'll be OK.'

           
She
sounded like this was supposed to be a reliable medical opinion. 'This is Moira
Cairns,' Dic said.

           
'Hello,'
Catherine Gruber said limply.

           
Moira
sensed she was worried sick.

The porch light was a naked bulb. Above it, the gaping
orifice, spread by stone thumbs, was deepened by the hard, unsubtle shadows it
threw.

           
The
Sheelagh na gig
, lit for drama, grinning
lasciviously at Joel Beard. And he was appalled to think that everyone entering
the church to worship God should have to pass beneath this obscenity.

           
Tradition,
the antiquarians said.
 
Our heritage.
Olde Englande.

           
Joel
Beard saw beyond all this, saw it only as symbolic of the legacy of evil he had
been chosen to destroy.

           
A few
minutes ago, he'd telephoned the Archdeacon from the kiosk in front of the Post
Office, giving him a carefully edited summary of the evening's events in
Bridelow. Not mentioning the appalling incident at the graveside with the
bottle - which the Archdeacon might have judged to be, at this stage, an
over-reaction on his part.

           
'Well,
poor Hans,' the Archdeacon had said easily and insincerely. 'I think he should
have a few months off, don't you? Perhaps some sort of semi-retirement. I shall
speak to the Bishop. In fact I think I'll go and see him. Meanwhile you must
take over, Joel. Do what you feel is necessary.'
           
'I have your support?'

           
'My
support spiritually - and ... and physically, I hope. I shall come to see you.
Drop in on you. Very soon. Meanwhile, tread carefully, Joel. Will you live at
the Rectory now?'

           
'The
girl's still there, Simon. Hans's daughter. She'll have to go back to Oxford
quite soon, I'd guess. But then there's Hans himself, when he leaves hospital.'

           
'Don't
worry. We'll find him somewhere to convalesce. Meanwhile ...'

           
'...
I shall sleep in the church. In the priest's cell.'

           
'All
alone down there? My God, Joel, you're a brave man.'

           
'It's
God's House!' Joel had said, even he feeling, with a rare stab of
embarrassment, that this was a naive response.

           
And
was
it God's House?

           
And
which God?

           
As he
entered the church of St Bride under the spread thighs of the leering Sheelagh,
he experienced the unpleasant illusion of being sucked into ...

           
No!!

           
'Long-haired
girls,' Dic Castle said bitterly. 'Always the long, dark hair.'

           
Moira
said, 'I can't believe this.'