Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain (62 page)

He pushed the form towards her. His fingers touched hers, briefly; she looked up into his lined face. Part of him was watching her, impassive, beyond stimulation. She felt that another part of him was already going away, something receding.

‘I still don’t understand why me.’

‘Don’t have many choices. I believe you won’t double-deal. And you know the people concerned.’

‘It needs another signature. A witness.’

‘Someone here you can trust? Preferably not your boyfriend.’

Whose life he might have saved. He just might.

‘Byron, there are several people I can trust. None of whom I’m prepared to expose to a man who I have every reason to think may have a gun with him.’

He grinned, turned his back on her. When he turned around again, it lay across the palm of his big, leathery hand.

‘The Glock.’ He placed it carefully on the table, pushed it towards Merrily. ‘I may ask for it back before I leave.’

She didn’t touch it. They both knew she could pick it up, point it at him and call the police. Always assuming it was loaded, and somehow, she thought, it would be.

Byron placed the pistol in the centre of the table, took a stack of prayer books from the pile and arranged them around the Glock on four sides, finally placing one on top.

‘You got a phone on you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Phone for a witness.’

Merrily pulled her mobile from her jeans then put it down on the table.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Long as you’re not playing for time so your congregation turns up.’

‘I wouldn’t expose a congregation to this. We have about forty minutes.’

‘Go on.’

‘When you tried to pass your religion off as just a series of exercises, a discipline – was that just for Lockley and Howe, or do you believe that?’

‘You’ve just reminded me why I found you so annoying.’ He stood up. ‘It’s a secular age. It doesn’t matter what you believe, it’s how you sell it. You have to use acceptable terminology. Nobody likes a crank, certainly not the men I deal with.’

‘I don’t think you’re that cynical.’

‘Who’s your proposed witness?’

‘Gomer Parry.’

‘Sensible choice. Could’ve wrecked my digger last night, but he didn’t.’

‘He would never wreck a digger. You know him?’

‘
Of
him. Make your call. Keep it casual, and he comes alone. If an armed response unit arrives, I’ll just bite the barrel. You don’t want that in here.’

God
.

‘And there’ll be no money for Fiona.’

She stared at him.

‘Fiona Spicer?’

‘Make your call. And I’ll be listening for nuances.’

Merrily put in the number and waited. It was surreal. Be easier if she could feel an accessible evil: the night stench in the tower room, the squirming male miasma assailing Jane in the mithraeum, which Jane had talked about only once when they were alone, staring blankly into the fireplace, disconnected, as if she was repeating someone else’s story. Jane, whose knowledge of Mithraism had been virtually non-existent then.

‘
Gomer Parry Plant Hire
.’

‘Oh. Sorry. Gomer, it’s me. You… got a few minutes to spare? Over at the church.’

‘Sure to, vicar.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be in the vestry.’

Simple as that. When the line cleared, Byron was nodding. Merrily put the phone on the table next to the stack of prayer books.

‘You really think Fiona’s going to accept anything from you?’

He blinked just once.

‘She can give it to her daughter, or a charity of her choosing. I liked Syd. You could only quarrel – on that level of intensity – with someone who was a brother.’

‘And Fiona? What was your quarrel with her?’

He looked at Merrily for a long time, his face blank. Then he transferred his gaze to the wall behind her. She tensed in horror.
Mithras always looks away
.

But then he turned back to her, his blue eyes steady.

‘I take full responsibility for everything I’ve done. No papering over cracks. No sentiment here. No apology. I don’t do that.’

‘Was that why you left Liz? Because you realized the elements you were dealing with…’

‘… were unsuited to a domestic situation. I’ll confirm that much. I had respect for my wife.’

That’s why you were so very publicly screwing your way around Hereford?

‘And when Mostyn killed the banker, Cornel, did he do that on his own? You know what I’m asking, don’t you? I understand he turned his head away when he did it. Do you think he was entirely responsible then for his own—?’

‘You’re back to the same question.’

‘I’m not a cop. These things matter to me.’

Confronting the impossibility of her own job. The toxic dilemma she’d tried to evoke for the students in the chapel.
To what extent you want to demonize this is up to you
.

Byron shook his head.

‘Nah.’

‘No, he wasn’t entirely responsible? No, he’d surrendered his—?’

‘How’s Barry?’

‘He’ll lose an eye. They think.’

‘But he’ll live. That’s what it said on the radio.’

‘So I believe.’

‘That was regrettable.’ Byron looked mildly affected. ‘He was a good soldier. Shot, unarmed, by a man who wasn’t fit to clean his boots. I’m taking responsibility. He’ll be the second beneficiary. Fiona, Barry. See to that, would you? Might be enough for a down payment on a big old pub. If there happened to be one on the market.’

‘You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?’

‘No sentiment, no apology. We take action, then we walk away.’

‘How will you live?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘All right.’ Merrily shook herself. ‘Tell me one more thing. When Syd died on Credenhill… you were there, weren’t you?’

He thought for just a moment.

‘Yes.’

‘What was that about?’

‘No comment.’

‘You must’ve been worried when you heard he was coming back, as chaplain.’

‘I never worry.’

She heard the squeak of the church doors. There was no time. There
had
to be time.

‘As far as I could see, Byron, there were two ways of looking at this – at Syd coming back – and one would be an opportunity. The chaplain’s the only direct feed into the spiritual life of the Regiment. If there was
anything
left of Mithras in Syd… if he was, to any extent, in denial… you might still see an old ambition realized. That John the Baptist side of you.’

He shrugged.

‘Did you ask to meet him on Credenhill? Just two recreational runners, paths crossing. Or did he ask you?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not really. All I’m feeling, very strongly, is that if you wanted to know where his innermost allegiances lay, there was only one thing you could say to him. Only one thing you could tell him, as a test. You’d tell him…’ she put both hands on the table, leaned forward, smelling the sweat and the mud and nothing else ‘… when and where and… and how… you’d had sex with his wife… right?’

His eyes closed briefly in his weathered sandstone face, and she half expected him to smash the pile of prayer books to the ground.

A tapping on the door.

‘
Vicar?
’

‘One minute, Gomer…’ She looked into Byron’s eyes, hissed, ‘You knew exactly what kind of interior eruption that would cause. This savage inner conflict between the soldier who wanted to beat you to a pulp and throw you down the fucking steps and the Christian who—’

‘And now we’ll never know.’

‘I think we do.’

‘Let Mr Parry in,’ Byron said.

Merrily turned away from him, nodded.

Now she could smell it.

W
HEN SHE GOT
back to the vicarage, nobody was home but Ethel.

The phone was ringing.

She’d have to be back in church in less than half an hour. She’d agreed to give Byron Jones ten minutes to walk away – like just another Easter hiker – before she called the police.

She picked up the phone. It was Dick Willis, minister in charge of the Credenhill cluster.

‘I do rather wish you’d given me a hint of this, Merrily.’ There was no anger in his voice. ‘Might even’ve been able to help you.’

‘Dick, it all moved too…’

And was still moving. Gomer had known as soon as he saw the name on the document. She’d told him it was all right. Byron had stood in the farthest corner of the room looking as unthreatening as a man like Byron could ever look. No fear in Gomer, only concern.

She’d firmly squeezed his hand and said it was OK.
OK
.

‘Don’t suppose they’ve got him yet,’ Dick Willis said.

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Frightening,’ Dick said. ‘Merrily, look, I’m sitting here on a chancel pew, waiting to take a service and I… I think I’d rather go into it with a clean conscience. Especially on Good Friday. When I told you that Colin Jones hadn’t been in Brinsop Church during a service, that was a blatant and unforgivable lie. He came once. Memorably. Though I wasn’t there.’

‘When was this?’

The ten minutes were up. She should be ringing Annie Howe. And if she was late for the service, Gomer Parry, who’d signed on the dotted line and then walked out with her and a murderer and rapist, would start raising hell.

‘About a year ago,’ Dick Willis said. ‘I was approached by Colin Jones and asked if he and some other “army colleagues” might borrow St George’s for an evening service. He offered what I can only describe as a remarkably generous donation towards the maintenance of the church.
Remarkably
generous.’

‘What kind of service?’

‘He didn’t explain in detail. He just called it a service of thanksgiving, which could mean anything, as you know. I presumed some of the chaps had come through a fairly dicey situation abroad and it was something they couldn’t talk about. I put it to the churchwarden and also ran it past the Bishop’s office. No objections – SAS, you know?’

‘Mmm.’

‘They also said they’d be bringing their own minister. A chap called, if I remember correctly, Adrian Barclay turned up. I’d never seen him before. Said he was from London. And then it was made clear that I was not required in any capacity. Then the congregation arrived in their cars. All men. About twenty of them.’

‘How long were they in there?’

‘Couple of hours. When the churchwarden thought he’d better check that everything was all right, he found the door locked from the inside. We never found out what that service was about. And, you know, some of the chaps in that congregation… most of them didn’t look like SAS men at all. You can tell a Regiment man, somehow – seldom huge muscular chaps, but there’s a
look
… somehow.’

‘But you kept quiet for the, erm…’

‘For the money, Merrily. You know how things are. What I did do afterwards was to check on the Reverend Barclay. Rang the church he said he was from.’

‘Which church was it?’

‘St Stephen, Walbrook, in London. The minister there said they’d never had an Adrian Barclay there, but when I described him – tall, shaven-headed chap in his early forties – he fitted the description of a curate who’d lasted six months before he was asked to leave. Wouldn’t explain why. Curious, wouldn’t you say?’

‘But you didn’t ask any questions… locally.’

‘It didn’t seem appropriate,’ Dick Willis said. ‘Locally.’

Merrily phoned Gaol Street, asked for Annie Howe.

Not available. She spoke to DC Vaynor and explained briefly. She said she’d last seen Colin Jones walking from the square into the alley which led to a stile which led to a footpath into the remains of the old Powell orchard.

What happened now would be an exercise for Byron. A discipline.

DC Vaynor told her not, on any account, to go anywhere, but she told him she had to be in church in twenty-five minutes and could not be disturbed. Not for anything.

She changed quickly into a black skirt, black cashmere jumper, pectoral cross, then sat down and Googled St Stephen Walbrook.

Never been, but she’d heard of it.

There was a colour photo of an angular City church with a campanile. Built by Sir Christopher Wren, it said, to replace one destroyed in the Great Fire of London. The first recorded church on the site near the River Walbrook, now underground, had dated back to the seventh century.

According to Wikipedia, the banks of the River Walbrook had yielded spectacular Roman remains, the best known of which was an impressively well-preserved monument now moved to Temple Court from its original site and open for public viewing. The London Mithraeum.

Its original site, apparently, had been close to the foundations of the Bank of England.

Merrily switched off the computer as if it was about to explode.

She couldn’t think about any of this until after the meditation.

Or Easter.

The vestry was locked now, but she didn’t know whether the pistol remained at the centre of the pile of prayer books.

She looked up at a movement in the window, saw Lol coming past towards the back door, in an actual jacket.

Flitting in and out of one another’s energy fields
.

She felt warmth, relief, guilt, a touch of shame… folding the Power of Attorney document and sliding it inside her copy of
Revelations of Divine Love
.

T
HE
W
ALES
/H
EREFORDSHIRE BORDER
is not exactly rich in Roman ruins, but Magnis did exist. In 2010, excavations in connection with a Herefordshire Council flood-alleviation system turned up some remarkable relics, including the remains of a very large woman, identified in parts of the media as a female gladiator – possibly a remote ancestor of Victoria Buckland. Thanks for additional information to the archaeologists George Children, Jodie Lewis and Francis Pryor.

Particular thanks to Tracy Thursfield, who directed me to the wonderful Brinsop Church, made some
very
significant connections there and uncovered illuminating aspects of Mithraism