Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain (39 page)

Could she ring Danny at Kinnerton this early? She was not
possessive
, didn’t pressure, didn’t chase. Not a
worrier
.

She sat on the edge of the chancel, the church keys lying on a stone flag at her feet. She’d prayed, then let her fears lie for a while, unexamined, as flesh-coloured light through the high plain-glass windows laid a greasy sheen on the pew ends.

Been letting things slide
, Lol had said.

You and me both. Merrily picked up the keys and stood. She already had her mobile out.

‘Not at all, Mrs Watkins!’ Greta Thomas, a woman who’d spent half a lifetime competing with amplifiers. ‘I been up hours.’

Merrily waited in the dewy churchyard until Danny came on and said no. No, Lol wasn’t there. No, he hadn’t been last night, neither.

‘When you seen him last, Merrily?’

‘About five-thirty last night. I had a parish council meeting, and I thought we’d arranged to meet in the Swan, but he didn’t show up, and he’s not been home.’

‘He don’t go many places, do he? His truck—?’

‘It’s not like him, is it? I’d ring the police, but it’s just a few hours and he’s a grown man. They’d probably just laugh at me.’

‘You got any idea at all?’

‘Only a worst-case scenario.’

‘I better come over now,’ Danny said.

On the refectory table, there was a note written in dying biro.

Mum… sorry… totally forgot E’s birthday.
Need to get the early bus into town. I’ll
call you.
Love, J

Jane needed to get a birthday present for Eirion before she met him in Hereford this afternoon. Eirion’s birthday again, so soon? Was he nineteen… twenty even?

Feeling half-relieved at not having to tell Jane about Lol, Merrily started making tea and toast which she didn’t want, just giving her hands things to do while waiting for the news on Radio Hereford and Worcester. Like if there was nothing on the news, everything would be OK.

The only local item was Ward Savitch talking about opening up The Court to the public over Easter
to thank the delightful people of Ledwardine for being so welcoming
.

When the phone rang in the scullery, Merrily abandoned both the toast and Savitch.

It should have cleared her head like a bucket of water from a deep, cold well.

Any other time.

‘Liz said a colleague of yours died, leaving unresolved issues relating to a man I had dealings with.’

‘Yes.’

‘I no longer publish him, of course,’ Alexandra Bell said. ‘Nor, I imagine, does anyone. It was the worst three years of my career, so I feel under no obligation
at all
to protect whatever remains of his reputation. Heartening to hear that Liz finally got away.’

A faint Australian accent. An editor of children’s books, you expected circumspection, a touch of the fastidious, but this was a woman who wasn’t holding back, who had clearly waited a long time to let all this out to the right person. Merrily sat down and lit a cigarette. Maybe she was the right person, but this really wasn’t the right time.

‘Erm, I didn’t want to… my original intention was to try and find out the substance of the other two books in his
Caradog
series, which now seem to be out of print.’

‘Don’t know how much you know about publishing, Reverend Watkins, but first-novelists are normally easy to work with. You want changes made, they’re so grateful to be getting into print they seldom argue.’

‘He argued?’

‘He simply ignored all my suggestions and refused to answer my questions. If I asked about the historical basis for something, he wouldn’t tell me.
Need to know
, was one of his phrases. Have you met him?’

‘No.’

‘As a writer, he wasn’t arrogant, he wasn’t boastful, had no pretensions to be any kind of stylist. He simply thought that if he came up with good enough stories – and they
were
good stories, no question – it didn’t matter where they came from. But children’s fiction requires, if anything, more attention to history. So…’

‘Well, yes.’ Merrily watched the sunlight gobbling up the dusty panes in the scullery window, the day racing. ‘Look, if could—’

‘So, in the end, I went up there to see him.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’d been before, when we first signed him, to persuade him that
Caradog
would work better as a children’s book - a boys’
book. He was charming. A very attractive man. I think he thought I was just a girl with a chequebook, I don’t think he realised I’d be his editor. The second time, he was
very
different.’

‘When was this?’

‘Probably six months later, around 2003. This was when a number of issues had arisen about his manuscript. Sexism. Extreme violence.’

‘A lot of that?’

‘Oh, Christ, yes. Lot of kids’ books involve mega-violence, but not – how can I put this? – not delivered with the relish, the
exultance
, that Byron displayed. I’m no wilting lily, I come from a part of Australia not widely known for being ultra-PC, but to me it was unsuitable for young readers without major surgery. In the end, we got away with reducing it to the bald facts – as in,
he cut the man’s head off
. He rarely minded us toning down his prose, no prima donna stuff there. What I found most iffy - and I’m not what you’d call a person of faith - was the way the violence was equated with religion.’

‘In what way?’ Merrily pulled over the sermon pad and a pen. ‘In the first book, Caradog’s faith doesn’t seem to be defined. We assume he’s a pagan, but what kind?’

‘I did some research of my own. There’s a story that Caradog was converted to Christianity while in Rome, after his capture. Now, that might be a myth, but it’s an
accepted
myth. In Byron’s book, however – in the second book – he’s already been converted, here in Britain.’

‘By whom?’

‘By himself.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Caradog’s first battles with the Romans are in the east, in Kent, and they’re largely defensive. But at some stage he travels west to attack Roman settlements. And he becomes the aggressor.’

‘Would this be at Credenhill?’

‘Don’t remember. What I do recall, the reason Caradog is able
to inflict such wholesale carnage is that he and his men are beating the Romans at their own game. They’ve studied and adapted and
developed
the Romans’ own tactics… which are strengthened by certain religious practices.’

‘He explain what these were?’

‘In gratuitous detail, which was one of the reasons I came to see him. Came down this day on the train, and we went out to lunch. In his Land Rover. It was winter.
Really
winter. When I asked if we might have the heating on, he said it didn’t work. Plus, the Land Rover was open at the back, and it was absolutely flaming perishing. When we got out at the pub, I could hardly speak for the cold.’

‘Didn’t he notice?’

‘If he did, he certainly didn’t comment on it. Afterwards… I’d foolishly asked if we could visit some of the locations, not realising I’d be expected to follow him on foot to the top of a very steep hill. Not wearing the most suitable footwear. When I stumbled, he… stepped in to stop me falling’

‘Good of him.’

‘By seizing my left breast?’

‘Oh God.’

‘I was pretty scared. But he didn’t try to kiss me, and he didn’t touch me again. It was as if it had never happened. He pointed out aspects of the view, which I don’t remember
at all
, and then we went down and he dropped me off at Hereford station, and that was that.’

Merrily thought,
Afterwards, he just said goodnight. I don’t think he even remembered my name
.

‘He touched you as… ’ She heard a vehicle drawing up in front of the vicarage drive.
Please God
…‘I’m sorry… are you saying he touched you as he might have touched, say, a man?’

‘Oh, no. It was done in an explicitly sexual way, but without… in some way, it was done without emotion. With
firmness
, rather than… what you might expect. With dispassion. I really don’t think I imagined that.’

‘Presumably, Liz doesn’t know about it?’

‘God, no. I told her later how difficult he was as an author and if it hadn’t been a three-book deal we’d’ve dumped him. I doubt she passed the message on.’

‘Did you see him again?’

‘I did
not
. I reverted to emails. The fact that the second book in the series was rejected by his American publisher I think convinced him to soft-pedal. They were far more sensitive about the religious aspects than we were – Bible Belt and all that.’

‘I’m still not quite getting this.’

‘The books seem to be suggesting a violent, merciless type of Christianity which makes men into pitiless killers. They slaughter everything – women, children – in their path without an atom of remorse. And the training for this militarised savagery is described in exhaustive detail. I’d email you copies of the original manuscripts if I hadn’t binned them years ago. Is that what you wanted to hear?’

‘It’s not what anyone
wants
to hear.’

‘I don’t want to know what he’s done but, if you do have to see him, best you don’t go alone.’

‘Can I call you back, if…?’

So many more things she needed to ask, but the possibility that the vehicle outside might be Lol…

‘Have to be tomorrow,’ Alexandra Bell said. ‘I have meetings all day. Why I called you so early.’

‘It was good of you.’

‘Yeah, well, no worries.’

Only a floating dread. When Merrily made it back into the kitchen, clawing her way through a fog of anxiety, all of it now involving Lol, the sun had come out and the refectory table was lightly dappled. Suddenly, perversely, it was a lovely spring day, the first of the year.

And it wasn’t Lol at the door, it was Danny Thomas and Gomer Parry.

Gomer had an unlit roll-up between his teeth. He was wearing one of his own GP Plant Hire sweatshirts under his old tweed jacket.

‘We been round the lanes,’ Danny said. ‘Talkin’ to folks we knows. One feller, he seen a truck like Lol’s gettin’ some attention. Then it was took away.’

‘I don’t—Where?’

Merrily looked from one to the other. Gomer with his cap rolled up in both hands like an overstuffed brown baguette. Danny’s pitted, bearded face expressionless, his mobile in one hand.

Danny said, ‘And then I just had a call… Merrily, this en’t good.’

‘N
O, ALL RIGHT
,’ Bliss said, ‘we won’t bring anyone in just yet. We need to gerrit all neat before we make a move.’

Karen Dowell was with him in his office in Gaol Street. Also Darth Vaynor, newly promoted to Position of Trust. On his desk, in white sunlight, a file. Victoria Buckland, aged twenty-five, a woman of violence. Eighteen drink-related convictions, four for assault.

The latest of these included violent assault on a teenage girl during a brawl outside a dance-music venue off Widemarsh Street. The most interesting was the attack on a man she’d been living with. One snappish, hungover Sunday morning, Victoria had stabbed him in the right eye with the broken-off spout of a teapot.

Oh, she was a celeb, Victoria, and cultivating it. The tattoo on her left arm said
I DO THE FUCKING
.

Karen said, ‘You remember Nerys Edwards, DC at Leominster?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Bit her on the face.’

‘Victoria?’ Bliss nodded. ‘I do remember her now. I remember the scar. But if that was down to Victoria, she could only’ve been… what…?’

‘Nine.’

‘Mother of God.’

‘Passenger in a car nicked by a couple of kids not much older.
It crashed into a lamp-post and Victoria had some bruising and abrasions, so Nerys bends down and lifts her up. Bad mistake.’

‘Not one anybody could feasibly make now, is it?’ Bliss looked down at the picture, winced. ‘I take it we have her on the streets at the right time?’

‘We have her in…’ Darth Vaynor consulted a printout ‘… four or five pubs so far, including the Monk’s Head. We also have her twice in High Town in the early hours. At 1.45, she was depositing a lager bottle tidily in a litter bin.’

‘That’s gorra be a first.’

‘Hard to believe even Goldie Andrews grassed her up,’ Vaynor said.

‘All the way to the hossie,’ Bliss recalled, ‘the lad with the spout, who could’ve died, was still insisting he stuck it in his own eye. Goldie, however, I’m pleased to say, spotted the writing spray-painted in gold on the wall at the top of her naff Hollywood stairs.’

‘You have a way, boss,’ Karen said.

‘Victoria is just the icing, Karen. You baked the cake.’

She’d done some exemplary work on this, must’ve been in long before dawn, on the phone then slipping over to Bobblestock, soon as he’d rung in from Goldie’s, to see Granny Wise’s family. All right, it wasn’t exactly the result he’d wanted. But maybe that was partly why she’d worked so hard on it. Bliss felt grateful and a little ashamed.

‘So we’re gonna do this right, and we’re gonna bring them all in at once. Background again, Karen?’

She had this little family tree drawn on the pad, demonstrating how easily even the most respectable units could become polluted.

‘The late Cynthia Wise, former primary school teacher. Two daughters. One of whom, Lynne, was originally married to a Peter Singleton, a public-health officer with the council.’

She’d got all this from the other daughter, who lived a few doors away from her late mother’s house up in Bobblestock.

‘Lynne and Peter get divorced. There’s one child, Josceline – custody to Lynne, of course. Lynne is then remarried to a
widower, Gerald Buckland, father of three, of whom Victoria is the eldest.’

‘Mr Buckland got form?’

‘One conviction for drink-driving, boss. Seventeen years ago. People like Victoria… sometimes they just happen.’

‘What about Joss?’

‘Not known to us in any respect until she and Carly Horne volunteered as witnesses, which somehow always looked a bit iffy to me. A quiet kid, according to her aunt. Possibly
too
quiet. Still waters kind of thing. After her parents’ divorce, she seems to have blamed them both, withdrawn into herself. Not happy in the Buckland home. Only person she was really close to is her gran.’