Midwinter of the Spirit (28 page)

‘No. That’s why I’m a Christian.’
Working towards it, anyway. Made it to the pious bitch stage
.

‘Mind, a crow splattered over a country church, that still has the touch of low-grade headbangers. What are you going to do about it?’

‘Major Weston was asking for reconsecration. I said that wasn’t necessary, as a consecration’s for all time.’

‘Correct. What you proposing instead?’

‘A lesser exorcism, do you think?’

‘When?’

‘I was thinking early evening, if we could get some people together then. I wouldn’t like to think of the place getting snowed in before we could do it.’

‘You want me to come over?’

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘Give me directions,’ Huw said. ‘I’ll be there at five.’

‘I can’t keep leaning on you.’

‘I like it,’ Huw said. ‘Keeps me off the drink.’

Merrily smiled. She saw Annie Howe, in her white belted mac, walking rapidly out of King Street carrying a briefcase. ‘I… suppose you’ve heard about Dobbs.’

‘Aye.’

‘Any thoughts on that?’

‘Poor bugger?’

‘That’s it?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Huw said.

Sophie pulled up an extra chair for Howe and left them in her office. The Acting DCI kept her mac on. She hated informality.

‘My knowledge of police demarcation’s fairly negligible,’ Merrily said, ‘but aren’t you a bit
senior
to be investigating the minor desecration of a country church?’

‘I’m not sure I am.’ Annie Howe brought a tabloid newspaper from her case and placed it before Merrily, on Sophie’s desk. ‘You’ve seen this, I imagine.’

A copy of last night’s
Evening News
. The anchor story:

WYE DEATH: MAN NAMED
.

‘Oh, this is the guy…’ Merrily had scarcely given it another thought. All memories of that night were still dominated by Denzil Joy. She scanned the text.

… identified as 32-year-old Paul Sayer, from Chepstow. Mr Sayer had not been reported missing for over a week because his family understood he was on holiday abroad. Acting Det. Chief Inspector Annie Howe, who is leading the investigation, said, ‘We are very anxious to talk to anyone who may have seen Mr Sayer since November 19. We believe he may have arrived in Hereford by bus or train and…

‘No need to read the lot. It’s mainly waffle. His relatives aren’t going to talk, and we ourselves have been rather economical with any information given out to the press.’

‘Aren’t you always.’

‘Need to Know, Ms Watkins,’ Howe said, ‘Need to Know. Let me tell you what we do know about Sayer.’

She brought out a folder containing photographs. Sophie, fetching in coffee for them on a tray, spotted one of them and made a choking noise.

‘Would you mind?’ Howe stood up and shut the door on both Sophie and the coffee.

‘I believe it’s known as the Goat of Mendes,’ Merrily said.

A colour photograph of what seemed to be a poster. Luridly demonic: like the cover of a dinosaur heavy-metal album from the eighties.

‘We’ll return to that,’ Howe said. ‘But this is a photograph of Paul Sayer. He may, for all we know, have been around the city for several days before he was killed.’

He had a fox-like face, the lower half almost a triangle. No smile. Hair lank, looked as if it would be greasy. Though his eyes were lifeless, he was not dead in this picture.

‘Passport photo.’ Annie Howe unbelted her raincoat. ‘Does look like him, though. Recognize him?’

Merrily shook her head. Howe looked openly around the office. Merrily wished the D on the door was removable for occasions like this. She felt self-conscious, felt like a fraud.

Howe smiled blandly, her contact-lensed eyes conveying an extremely subtle sneer. ‘You’re like a little watchdog at the gate up here, Ms Watkins.’

‘Look, if you’re not here specifically to arrest me, how about you call me Merrily?’

‘Actually, the people I call by their first names tend to be the ones I’ve
already
arrested. Standard interview-room technique.’

‘But the suspects don’t get to call you Annie.’

You might wonder if anyone did, under the rank of superintendent, she had such glacial dignity. She was only thirty-two, Merrily estimated, the same age as the man pulled out of the Wye – Paul Sayer whose photo lay on the desk.

‘I expect you’ll get round to explaining what this poor guy has to do with the Goat and me.’

‘ “This poor guy”?’ said Annie Howe. ‘Why do I suspect your sympathy may be short-lived?’

‘He had, er, form?’

‘None at all. He was, according to his surviving family, a quiet, decent, clean-living man who worked as a bank clerk in Chepstow and lived in a terraced house on the edge of the town, which was immaculately maintained. He was unmarried, but once engaged for three years to a young woman from Stroud who’s since emigrated to Australia. I’ll be talking to her tonight, but one can guess why the relationship foundered.’

Merrily took out a cigarette. ‘Do you mind?’

‘It’s your office.’

‘I’ll open the window. Why did the engagement fall through?’

‘Don’t bother with the window, Ms Watkins. I’m paid to take risks. Well I suppose she must have seen his cellar.’

Cellar?

‘Oh, my God, not a Fred West situation?’

‘Let’s not get
too
carried away. This is it.’

Six more photographs, all eight by ten. All in colour, although there wasn’t much colour in that cellar.

‘Christ,’ Merrily said.

‘So now you understand why I’m here.’ Howe turned one of the pictures around, a wide-angle taken from the top of the cellar steps. ‘Is this your standard satanic temple, then, would you say?’

‘I’ve never actually been in one, but it looks… well, it looks like something inspired by old Dracula films and Dennis Wheatley novels, to be honest.’

‘The altar,’ Howe said, ‘appears to have been put together from components acquired at garden centres in the vicinity – reconstituted stone. The wall poster’s of American origin, probably obtained by mail-order – we found some glossy magazines full of this stuff.’

‘Sad.’

‘Yes, I admit I have a problem understanding the millions of people who seem to worship your own God, but this… How real are these people? How genuine?’

‘I don’t know… I’d be inclined to think the guy who built this temple is – I may be wrong – what my daughter would call a sad tosser.’

‘But a dead tosser,’ Howe said. ‘And we have to consider that his death could be linked to his… faith.’

Merrily examined a close-up of the altar. ‘What’s the stain?’

‘We wondered that – but it’s only wine.’

‘So, no signs of…?’

‘Blood sacrifice? We haven’t finished there yet, but no.’

‘How did you find this set-up?’

‘We had to break through a very thick door with a very big lock. The local boys were quite intrigued. Not that he appears to have broken any laws. It’s all perfectly acceptable in the eyes of the law, as you know.’

‘Makes you wonder why there are any laws left,’ Merrily said. ‘I’ve always thought Christianity would become fashionable overnight if they started persecuting us again.’

‘So,’ Howe gathered up the photos, ‘you aren’t very impressed by Mr Sayer’s evident commitment to His Satanic Majesty.’

‘No more than I was by the sick bastards who spread a crow over a lovely little old church, but…’

‘Yes, that’s the point. In your opinion, if we were to devote more person-hours than we might normally do to catching the insects who dirtied this church – which amounts to no more than wilful damage and possible cruelty to a wild bird, which is unprovable – might they be able to throw some light on the religious activities of Mr Sayer?’

‘You’re asking if there’s a network in this area?’

‘Precisely.’

‘I’ve no idea. It
is
our intention to build up a file or database, but I’m only just getting my feet under the table, and nothing like that seems to exist at present. My… predecessor—’

‘Is not going to be saying an awful lot to anyone for quite a while, from what I hear. If ever.’

‘I’m sorry about this.’ Merrily was desperate for another cigarette, but unwilling to display weakness in front of Howe – who leaned back and looked pensive.

‘Ms Watkins, what’s your gut feeling?’

‘My gut feeling… is that… although there’s no obvious pattern, there’s something a bit odd going on. I mean, I was on a course for Deliverance priests. All of us were vicars, rectors… Nobody does this full-time, that’s the point. We were told a diocesan exorcist might receive four, five assignments in a year.’

‘While you…?’

‘You want to see my appointments diary already – plus two satanic links within a week. Yes, you might find it worth following through on the Stretford case. I wonder if they ever return to the scene of the crime.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’m going back tonight to do what we call a minor exorcism.’

‘Interesting. If they’re local, they might not be able to resist turning up.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Thank you, Ms Watkins, we’ll be represented.’ Annie Howe snapped her briefcase shut.

‘Just one thing.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Could you make them Christians?’

‘Who?’

‘The coppers.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Two reasons,’ Merrily said. ‘One is that, if they’re not, I can’t let them in. Two, a few extra devout bodies at an exorcism can only help – I understand.’

‘You understand.’

‘I’ve never done one before, have I?’

26

Family Heirloom

L
OL SAT IN
the flat above Church Street – Moon’s ‘Capuchin Lane’. He was waiting for Denny.

He’d been waiting for Denny for several hours. It was going dark again. The shop below, called John Barleycorn, had been closed all day. Denny had not yet said he was coming, but Lol knew that sooner or later he would have to.

It was Anna Purefoy who had found the photocopy, about the same time that Lol left the bathroom and Denny went in and they heard him roar, in his agony and outrage, like a maddened bull. It was Mrs Purefoy, Lol thought, who – in the choking aftermath of a tragedy that was all the more horrifying because it
wasn’t
a surprise – was the calmest of them.

‘Is Katherine dead?’

Lol had nodded, still carrying an image of the encrusted overflow grille. Like the mouth of a vortex, Moon’s life sucked into it.

‘Tim,’ Mrs Purefoy had said then, ‘I think you should telephone the police from our house. I don’t think we should touch anything here.’

And when Tim had gone, she’d led Lol to the telephone table by the side of the stairs. ‘I was about to phone for them myself, and then I saw this.’ Her red parka creaked as she bent over the table. ‘Did you know about this, Mr Robinson?’

It was a copy of a cutting from the
Hereford Times
, dated November 1984. It took Lol less than half a minute to make horrifying sense of it. He was stunned.

‘Did
you
know about it?’

A mad question maybe. Would anybody knowing about this have bought the old house?

By then, Denny had emerged from the bathroom, and was standing, head bowed, on the other side of the stairs. After a moment he looked up, wiped the back of a hand across his lips and shook his head savagely, his earring jangling. He didn’t look at Lol or Mrs Purefoy as he strode through the room and out of the barn, the door swinging behind him. You could hear his feet grinding snow to slush as he paced outside.

Mrs Purefoy said, ‘Did you know her very well, Mr Robinson?’

‘Not well enough, obviously,’ Lol said. ‘No… no I didn’t know her well.’

And then the police had arrived – two constables. After his first brief interview, not much more than personal details, Lol had gone out on the hill while they were talking to Denny and the Purefoys. He ascended the soggy earth-steps to the car, freezing up with delayed horror, a clogging of sorrow and shame backed up against a hundred questions.

He’d waited by the barn with Denny until they brought the body out. Hearing the splash and slap and gurgle and other sounds from the bathroom. Watching the utility coffin borne away to the postmortem. And then he and Denny had gone to Hereford police headquarters, where they were questioned separately by a uniformed sergeant and a detective constable. Statements were made and signed, Lol feeling numbed throughout.

He and Denny had had no opportunity to talk in any kind of privacy.

The police had shown Lol the old cutting from the
Hereford Times
and asked him if he’d seen it before, or if he was aware of the events decribed in the story.

Lol had told them he knew it had happened, but not like this. He’d always understood it had been a shotgun in the woods, but he didn’t remember how he had come to know that.

Later, the police let him read the item again. In the absence of a suicide note, they were obviously glad to have it. It made their job so much easier.

ANCIENT SWORD USED BY SUICIDE FARMER

Hereford farmer Harry Moon killed himself with a twothousand-year-old family heirloom, an inquest was told this week
.

Mr Moon, who had been forced to sell Dyn Farm on Dinedor Hill because of a failed business venture, told his family he was going to take a last look around the farm before they moved out
.

He was later found by his young son in a barn near the house, lying in a stone cattle trough with both wrists cut. Dennis Moon told Hereford Deputy Coroner Colin Hurley how he found a ten-inch long sword, an Iron Age relic, lying on his father’s chest
.

‘The sword had hung in the hall for as long as I can remember,’ he said. ‘It was supposed to have been handed down from generation to generation.’