A young, bearded detective with a mobile phone came over. ‘Bloody hell, sir, did you know there were no less than four crossbow clubs in the general vicinity? What’s the world coming-Oh, sorry.’
Hatch hustled the detective away from Cindy.
Who was startled. A crossbow? In the paper, it had said simply that Maria had been shot. The police were obviously sitting on the crossbow angle for the moment. What else had they not yet disclosed?
Cindy stood motionless in the clearing. It was still an old woodland. Part of the prehistoric and medieval landscape he liked to walk on Sundays. Fordingbridge to the northwest … a castle mound beyond there … several tumuli … And, of course, as soon as they’d arrived, he’d spotted the motte and bailey nearby. Probably built on a prehistoric site. It would certainly have been here when William Rufus …
He closed his eyes, emptied his mind and at once felt a frigid trembling in his solar plexus and a powerful sense of residual evil around this soft-lit glade.
A crossbow.
An horrific flash-image of Maria with a steel bolt nailing her to the floor of the forest.
He turned away, his hands cold and tingling. He moved to the edge of the tape and walked away along the track for a few yards.
‘Has something occurred to you, Mr Lewis?’ He turned sharply to find DCI Hatch right behind him.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose something has.’
‘Do you want to tell me?’
‘It’s probably already occurred to you. Being a local man. Do you know the story of the death of William II? William Rufus, son of the Conqueror?’
‘Shot in the forest, wasn’t he? By a man with a … oh, right.’
‘A crossbow,’ Cindy said. ‘In this very forest.’
‘About eight hundred years ago, as I recall,’ Hatch said. ‘Unlikely we’re looking for the same man, then.’
‘No.’
‘And no, it hadn’t occurred to me,’ Hatch said flatly, ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Perhaps not so much a man, Chief Inspector, as a tradition. We know who killed William. It was his own huntsman, Walter Tirel. During a hunting expedition, the king shot a stag, wounding it, following its flight and holding up his hand, ostensibly to protect his eyes from the brightness of the setting sun. At which signal, Tirel, purporting to aim at another stag, shot the king.’
Hatch said, ‘Signal?’ Showing he had, at least, been paying attention.
‘Do you know the Margaret Murray theory? That William was a ritual sacrifice?’
‘The only Margaret Murray I know,’ Hatch said heavily, ‘is a Labour councillor on the police committee.’
‘This one was an academic. An historian. Dr Murray published her anthropological history of witchcraft and paganism in 1931. Her theory was that although William Rufus might have appeared to support the Church, it seems likely he was a lifelong pagan. As the king, he would have been regarded as a god incarnate, and he was growing old. Well, a god could never grow old or weak or feeble. He must die for his people, to strengthen their attachment to this new land. And, of course, as the king, he was permitted to select the time and circumstances of his own ritual death.’
‘Dubious privilege,’ Hatch said. No doubt thinking, Old Welsh queen’s lost his marbles.
Cindy walked into the centre of the clearing.
‘The king had prepared himself for death, had eaten and drunk well and taken possession of six fresh bolts for his crossbow. Two of which he handed to Walter Tirel before they left. When he was shot, William then broke off the wooden shaft of the bolt and fell upon the stump.’
‘Very interesting, sir,’ Hatch said. ‘But I’d be glad if you wouldn’t mention crossbows to anyone at this stage. Probably be common knowledge by tomorrow, but by then we can’ve pinned down every crossbow-owning nutter between here and-’
Cindy said, ‘Do you see the beauty of it? William let the Earth finish him.’
‘To be honest, Mr Lewis, I don’t see much of a link here. Two crossbow killings eight hundred years apart?’
‘Just thought you should be aware of it, Chief Inspector.’
‘Yes. Thank you very much, sir. Do you think we could persuade Mrs Capaldi to go home now?’
Part One
Stone with magnetic or radioactive properties seems to have been incorporated into some monuments. Certain parts of the brain are sensitive to magnetic fields — particularly the temporal lobe region which houses the organs that process memory, dreams and feeling. There is an archaic tradition of sleeping on stones of power to achieve visions.
I
Three years later, the autumn night he died, Bobby Maiden was drinking single malt, full of this smoky peat essence. Put you in mind of somewhere damp and lonely. Moorland meeting the sea, no visible horizon.
The whiskies were on the house, all five of them. Could be the same went for the woman. Who was starting to look more than OK, the arrangement of her too-black hair coming apart in a tumble, sexy as a bathrobe falling open. Face white, lipstick a luminous mauve, all very Gothic. When you hadn’t been in this situation for quite a while, you tended to forget what an over-scented lady in a pasted-on black frock could do when she was concentrating.
‘So, Bobby …’ Shaking out a fresh cigarette. ‘Your old man was one too, then.’
Five whiskies. About right for explaining how the old bastard shafted him.
‘A real one,’ Maiden said. ‘Not many left. As he’d keep telling you. A Plod. Village copper, deepest Cheshire. I mean, there’s nowhere very deep in Cheshire any more, but there was then. Police Sergeant Norman Maiden. Never Norman. Certainly never Norm. Not with the uniform on. Question of respect, madam.’
Well after midnight now. Just Maiden and this woman called … Susan? … in Tony Parker’s nasty new club in the grim, concrete west end of Elham. How this had happened, he’d arranged to meet Percy Gilbert, Snout of the Year, 1979. Be worth your time, Mr Maiden, no question. No-one else in Elham CID had any time, never mind money, for Percy these days. But it was Bobby Maiden’s weekend off, so nothing lost. Nothing at all. Sadly.
But the bugger hadn’t shown. Maiden had ordered a Scotch, and the barman wouldn’t take any money — special introductory offer for new members, the drink’ll be brought to your table, sir. On these soiled streets, a police warrant card bought more drinks than American Express, but he didn’t think the barman knew him. Next thing, the woman’s arriving with a tray, claiming to be Parker’s niece, from London.
By this time, the gears are whirring, cogs clicking into place. A nicely oiled mechanism starting up. The sound of Tony Parker making his move.
Mr Un-nickable. Mr Immunity.
Maiden deciding to roll with it, see where it led.
‘… course, all the kids were terrified of this flesh-eating dinosaur in the tall hat. He had the human race divided into three: the police, the evil toerags and the Public who were grateful for your protection and showed a bit of respect. So there was only one role for a real man and, particularly, for Son of Plod. Thing was, Su …’
Suzanne. That was the name. But, remembering it, he’d forgotten what he was going to say.
Suzanne put down her vodka and orange, kind of thoughtful. What had she asked him, to start him off about Norman Plod? What’s a sensitive guy like you doing in the police? Maybe. Couldn’t remember.
One thing about Suzanne: she was professionally unknown to Maiden. That is, not one of Tony Parker’s regular slags. Plus, she had a certain bizarre style.
‘There was some poet, Bobby … wrote this really deep-down truthful line. Tennyson, Keats, one of those. I don’t go much on poetry, but … “Your mum and dad, they always fuck you up …” Something like that. Wordsworth, would it be?’