Juanita stopped, tried to hold Diane's eyes but Diane turned away.
'You really did see it, didn't you, Diane? You saw Gerry Rankin or his son or both of them kicking this boy's head. You saw the blood. Come on, I need to hear you say it.'
'Yes.' Diane stared hard at the counter. 'Yes, but…'
'Oh God, I knew it.'
'Why was he found miles away? The Rankins didn't take him to Stoke St Michael, they took me back to Bowermead. They left Headlice in Don Moulder's field.'
Juanita shrugged. 'So the Pilgrims found him, got scared
…'
Scared? Those bastards?
'…and…and…listen to me, Diane…and they loaded him into his bus and somebody drove it off and dumped it in that wood. Then they got the hell out of Somerset. It makes perfect sense to me. These people will avoid the police even if they've done nothing wrong.'
She had to change the subject then because a couple of customers came in, elderly teacherish types, the kind who browsed forever.
'Actually…' Lowering her voice. '… I can't help thinking I may have upset Jim. He was obviously leading up to saying what I didn't want him to say when Griff Daniel came into the bar and we all ran out into the street. I didn't see Jim after that.'
'He's a nice man,' Diane said.
'Yes,' Juanita carelessly dusted the counter. 'And only a few years older than Harrison Ford.'
This morning she'd contemplated what looked like a very sad and drooping face in the bedroom mirror and hadn't fallen into the usual routine of giving herself a what- the-hell consolatory grin before turning away.
Several of Jim's paintings hung in the flat. One showed a flank of the Tor below which the sun had set, the afterglow concentrated into a thin, vibrating red line, like a bright string pulled taut. It was clear that within a few seconds the line would have gone, and the earth was straining to hold and feel the moment.
Feel the moment. Jim had risen to feel the moment and she'd been horribly relieved when a force of nature called Griff Daniel had knocked him down. But that wouldn't have been obvious from her face, would it?
Verity put down her tea cloth and stepped into the middle of the kitchen, putting her hands together and closing her eyes as if about to pray. Then, very slowly, she opened them, like the arms of Tower Bridge.
Keeping her wrists joined together and raising her arms, bringing the cupped hands to face-level.
… like a priest presenting the chalice for High Mass, was how Dr Grainger had put it.
She opened her eyes and stared into the space between her hands. The light from the high window unfurled around her like a flag. She felt like a any Joan of Arc, the quilted body-warmer serving as a breastplate.
'Do this every hour,' Dr Grainger had instructed. 'And then when night falls and the window turns black – and this is the important part – you continue to do it.'
There was another exercise, which had to be done upstairs. It involved hugging an upright, perhaps the newel post at the top of the stairs, and at the same time feeling the walls closing around her, feeling the house hugging her.
She would assiduously practise both these exercises for a week, as instructed. She would embrace the dark.
She remembered the dramatic effects of the communal exercises led by Dr Grainger at the Assembly Rooms. It was not wrong. She would feel Colonel Pixhill beside her. And poor Major Shepherd. Abbot Whiting she was less sure about now, since the Dinner.
'That guy has a problem,' Dr Grainger had said when Oliver Pixhill had gone. 'He has a problem with his father. I don't buy what he was saying about the darkness in this house being down to the Colonel's essence. House this old, it shrugs people off. His problem is personal, I doubt it need concern you.'
'Oh, but it must, Dr Grainger. You see, he's a Trustee now. He has influence. The Old Guard, the people who knew the Colonel, they've all gone. All gone now. Major Shepherd was the last.'
'He can fire you, this Pixhill''
'It's not quite as simple as that, if I refuse to leave. Which I shall, most certainly. But… Oh, I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, except stay here and wait. There's no one to advise me. Poor Major Shepherd.'
She'd put a drop of Dr Bach's Rescue Remedy on her tongue, Dr Grainger nodding approval.
'This major, he was the Colonel's right-hand man?'
'They served together in the War. Dr Grainger, it's not true what Oliver said about the Colonel. He was a good, kind man. He wouldn't have harmed anyone. He loved people. He loved Glastonbury.'
'Sure. I'm sure you're right."
'I'm probably speaking out of turn, but perhaps Oliver expected the house to be left to him until the Trust was set up. Oh dear, I don't even know how or when he became a Trustee. His name was just there'
'These trusts, sometimes they like to have a relative. Usually to see that the wishes of the founder are adhered to.'
'He was just a boy,' Verity said. 'What could he know of the Colonel's wishes?'
Dr Grainger had nodded sagely as Verity put the kettle on the Aga for camomile tea.
'You see, only two days ago Major Shepherd said that someone would help me. He said things were coming to a head, but if I could hold on…'
'That's what he said? If you could hold on, someone would come along who could help you?'
Verity bit her lip. Dr Grainger smiled, brushing a cobweb from the sleeve of his black jacket. It was the kind of jacket that vicars used to wear.
'Maybe someone did. Verity.'
'Did?'
'Come along. To help you.'
'You mean…?'
'I told you, I can make it easier for you here. You just have to trust me."
Thinking of Colonel Pixhill and his desire to experience the Holy Grail, Verity opened her hands, keeping them joined at the wrist.
As if to receive a chalice.
THIRTEEN
Harvey-Calder UK had a new building, near Canary Wharf with its Empire State obelisk. Some London New Age group claimed this was the crossing point of major metropolitan leys, a significant power centre. Ben Corby was probably in the process of publishing a book on it.
Powys stared at the tower. He'd only seen it in pictures before.
He couldn't believe he'd done this.
Leaving Arnold with Mrs Whitney, he'd driven into Hereford and jumped on the Intercity before he could change his mind. He didn't even know if there was a train, but he walked into the station five minutes before it got in.
He was getting this feeling of being on a conveyor belt, everything going as smoothly as if it was pre-programmed.
As if it was fate.
He'd thought of ringing Fay at the BBC. In the sure knowledge that if she had an engagement tonight, she'd cancel it. She would be there. Whenever. He knew that; he'd be the same. So he didn't call, it wouldn't be fair. And, if he looked to Fay as bad as he'd looked to Mrs Whitney, she probably wouldn't let him go back home. Which would help neither of them.
Dan Frayne's office was on the third floor. It was all open-plan, like the Stock Exchange, computer terminals everywhere. This maybe told you something you needed to know about publishing in the nineties.
'Joe Powys,' Dan Frayne said. 'Hey. Amazing. Jesus, man, you look all-in. Heavy journey? Bobby, coffee. Coffee OK for you?'
He was probably in his late forties. He had cropped grey hair and an earring with a small green stone in it. His shapeless clothes emphasised how thin he was and made Joe Powys, in clean jeans and a new sweater, feel overdressed.
He stared at Powys for a long time over his glass-topped 'No. You don't look like him. Not at all. Of course, I'm only going off the pictures.'