Al’s profile in the glow of candles in bottles. You want to know the truth of it, I’m still paying back.
‘He seriously believes he’s cursed?’
‘Don’t underestimate the weight of that tradition, Merrily. He seriously knows he’s cursed.’
Charlie Howe’s high-ceilinged, white-walled sitting room was more than half office: a roll-top desk, a crowded flat-top desk, a wooden filing cabinet, a bookcase full of box files and a computer. There was also a TV set, with satellite box, and a black-leather recliner placed in front of the screen.
Right now, Charlie didn’t seem in the mood for reclining. He sat on the deep window sill.
‘The Reverend Merrily Watkins,’ he said. ‘My latest weak spot. You bastard, Brother Robinson. Are you two—?’
Lol shook his head.
‘But you live in hope, I imagine. Were you there last night, by any chance, when this Shelbone child…?’
Lol nodded.
‘Can’t beat that for bitter irony, can you? Allan Henry gets his biggest wish in all the world: the bloody Barnchurch burns down – at a cost. And what a cost. What’s he gonner do now? Will he build on the very spot where his stepdaughter died?’
‘My guess,’ Lol said, ‘would be a Layla Riddock memorial plaque on a side wall of Debenhams.’
Charlie Howe laughed and pointed at him, one eye closed. ‘Dead right, Brother! By God, you must be very fond of Mrs Watkins. Last time anybody threatened me like that in public, he – but then, I must watch my tongue in front of you, mustn’t I? You really were going to try and blackmail me, weren’t you?’
‘Persuade you.’
‘Good word. Often used it myself. Persuade me to do what?’
‘Just to get your daughter off Merrily’s back. She’s trying really hard to make sense out of an impossible job, and your daughter’s going to turn her into a demon or a martyr. And the Church of England doesn’t like either, so we all know what that means.’
‘This is the kiln murder, yes? And that’s what put you on to Lake.’ He scratched his head. ‘Fact is, I hadn’t even realized this was the same bloody kiln.’
‘Well, I’m going to be dead honest with you—’
‘Must you, Robinson? Half a lifetime in the police force and a good few years mixing day-to-day with councillors, I en’t comfortable with honesty.’
‘Well,’ Lol shrugged, ‘the truth is I haven’t a hope in hell of proving the police had good reason to suspect Lake of killing Rebekah Smith and then pulled back because Lake was who he was. I’ve got even less chance of proving that somebody in the police confiscated whatever the Smith boys nicked the night of Stewart’s murder. All I know is that Mumford made the arrest, and Mumford and you were always close, despite the disparity in rank.’
‘Absolutely correct, my friend. Salt of the earth, Andy. Solid as a bloody rock.’
‘And he presumably holds you in similar esteem – and he wouldn’t like to see your reputation impugned by something that happened forty years ago when you were a youngster and perhaps had to choose between turning a blind eye to something and seeing a promising career go down the tubes. And anyway, he’s coming up to retirement, so he doesn’t have much to lose. See, I can’t prove anything. But I can think of one or two papers – even TV programmes…’
Charlie came down from the window sill. ‘We’re not in a café now, Brother. I could knock your bloody head off.’
‘Sure. I bet you know all the ways of working suspects over in the cells without leaving a mark. But you’ve got to remember, when I get up, I’ll be back on the case. You can take a lot of bruises and broken bones and ruptured spleens, for love.’
Charlie Howe’s expression didn’t change. ‘And what’s Anne gonner do, exactly?’
Lol told him about the proposed statement on exorcism and responsibility, as outlined by Frannie Bliss.
Charlie sniffed. ‘Not a chance. You been led up the garden path, brother. No chief constable – certainly not this one – would put his name to something that could get him in bother with the Church. They don’t need that kind of conflict. En’t like you get one of these every day or even every year, is it? The Chief’ll tell Anne if she wants to say that stuff, she can get out there and say it herself.’
‘You think she wouldn’t?’
Charlie finally went over and collapsed into his recliner. ‘You want the truth, I think she would. The truth – bloody hell, you got me going, now. Have a drink?’
‘No, thanks. I was up all night. I’m already running on reserve.’
‘You want more truth? I don’t think it’d do Anne any more good, long-term, than it would for Merrily. A detective with a big mouth has a limited career span. In the Service, anyway. Might get a job on there.’ He pointed the toe of his shoe at the TV screen. ‘And I thought she’d got over all that. All right.’ He sat up. ‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t think this is a victory for you, Brother. I en’t finished with you, yet. And I’m not saying she’ll take any notice. But I’ll talk to her.’
Lol said, ‘Any chance you could make it a priority thing?’
‘I’ll see if she’s free tonight.’ Charlie stood up, went over to the phone. ‘I en’t finished with you, though, I surely bloody en’t.’ He didn’t need to look up the number. ‘DCI,’ he said into the phone. ‘Aye, this is her ol’ man, if you don’t know the voice.’ He waited, then he said, ‘Colin, how you doing, boy? Where is she? Really? What time would that be, then? Aye, I know that, boy, but where can I find her now?’ He blew some air down his nose. ‘All right. Thank you, boy.’
‘Not there?’
‘Gone off tying up the ends of the Stock case,’ Charlie said. ‘As you might expect.’
‘The ends?’
‘And there’ll be at least one TV crew up there filming, for the news. She’s agreed to do interviews early this afternoon, on site.’
‘She’ll use that as the opportunity, won’t she?’
‘She might,’ Charlie conceded. ‘You going back there?’
Lol nodded.
‘Might follow you,’ Charlie said.
She’d wondered, half-hopefully, if by day – especially on a day like this – it might look innocuous, even friendly. She’d half expected to feel, on arriving here, faintly stupid.
Never before having been asked to exorcize a field.
So it came as a shock, the deadness of it: the yellowness of the grass on what was supposed to be deep loam, the black alleys of poles with their crosspieces looking like some battlefield arrangement from the First World War, so that you expected to encounter occasional corpses leaning against the poles, tatters of uniforms and flesh hanging from grey bones.
But there was only Al.
She didn’t see him at first. He was sitting immobile between two distant poles, a white thing like a chalk megalith.
‘Stay here,’ Simon said. ‘He’ll be in some kind of trance. Not that we’d disturb him – a Romany shaman could go into trance between checkouts at Tesco. At their spiritual-healing sessions, it’s pandemonium, everybody talking and laughing, drums, violins – it’s the way they are. I just suspect – call me an old reactionary – that we shouldn’t necessarily become involved with his current ambience.’
‘Stay at this end, then?’
‘I think so.’
Merrily looked up at the sky through an irregular network of wires. ‘How long to noon?’ She’d come out without her watch.
Simon looked at his, then took it off. ‘Fifty-one minutes.’