‘I’m sorry.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t be bloody sorry, vicar. I’ve had a lot more fun in twenty-five unencumbered years than I had with her. Anyway… I met you there at the school and I liked your attitude and I thought we were likely to be on the same wavelength on certain matters. And then that little girl taking the overdose – that rather clinched it.’
‘Well… thanks.’
‘I don’t much like Brother Henry,’ he said. ‘I don’t like him as a businessman or as… as a man.’
‘Because?’
‘Because… well, he’s ruthless and he’s vindictive, for starters. The rest I’d need to think about.’
‘And Layla Riddock’s not even his daughter.’
‘He brought her up, though,’ Charlie said, ‘didn’t he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Me neither, really. I don’t know how long he and Shirley Riddock have been together. But it makes you think, don’t it just?’
‘He must’ve been very disappointed when certain people failed to persuade David Shelbone to take early retirement.’ Merrily broke off a small piece of scone and then put it back on the plate. ‘Oh hell, this is getting ridiculous.’
‘Nothing’s ridiculous,’ said Charlie Howe. ‘Hello…?’
Merrily looked up. A man had come in through reception and was walking directly towards their table.
‘Well, well,’ Charlie said.
Merrily recognized Andy Mumford, Hereford Division CID. Being promoted to Detective Sergeant in the twilight of his career must have given him new heart, because he’d lost weight. Sadly, it had made him look even more lugubrious.
‘Andrew Mumford, as I live and breathe.’ Charlie beamed but didn’t stand up. ‘This your local now then, boy, in keeping with your new-found status?’
‘Hello, boss,’ Mumford said heavily.
‘Dropped in for some career advice, is it? Stick it as long as you can, I’d say. Half these so-called security jobs, you’re just a glorified caretaker. Have a seat.’
‘I won’t, thank you, boss. In fact, it was actually Mrs Watkins I was looking for.’
‘Well… you can study for the ministry up to the age of sixty,’ Merrily told him, ‘but at the end of it, caretakers still earn more money.’
Mumford didn’t smile. ‘Mrs Watkins, Mr Howe’s daughter and my, er, governor would like it a lot if you could come to her office for a discussion.’
‘Oh.’ She sat up, surprised. ‘OK. I mean… Just give me half an hour. Because I do need to pop over to my office first.’
‘No, Mrs Watkins,’ Mumford said. ‘If you could come with me now…’
‘Only somebody’s going to be waiting for me, you see.’
‘If it’s Mr Robinson you mean,’ Mumford said, ‘we’ve already collected him at the gatehouse.’
Mumford’s unmarked car was parked in one of the disabled-driver spaces at the top of Broad Street. He drove Merrily across town and entered the police car park, from the Gaol Street side.
It was the pleasantest time of day, layered in shades of summer blue. Mumford didn’t have much to say. He’d evidently been warned not to spoil the surprise. But he’d said enough.
Annie Howe had been given a new office. Merrily couldn’t remember how they reached it. She didn’t notice what colours the walls were. She didn’t remember if they’d taken the stairs or the lift. She felt like she was walking on foam rubber through some bare, grey forest in the wintry hinterland of hell.
Howe’s office door was pushed-to, not quite closed; they could hear voices from inside.
Mumford knocked.
No answer.
He pushed it a little. ‘Ma’am?’
Inside, the room was dim, the window blinds pulled down. Merrily could see a TV set, switched on. The picture on the screen looked down at a group of people standing about awkwardly, looking at each other as if they didn’t know what to do next.
‘… oom?’ a woman said.
One of the others, a man, nodded and walked across the screen and out of shot.
‘Better wait here a moment, Mrs Watkins,’ Mumford said.
On the TV screen, nobody moved for a second or two, then a woman, much shorter, followed the man.
The sound was not very good, with lots of hiss; you could hear the voice, although you couldn’t see who was speaking.
The voice said awkwardly, ‘Gerard, I think I… need to go first.’
23
Poppies in the Snow
‘SIT DOWN, MERRILY.’ Annie Howe switched off the TV. She went over to the window and reeled up the blind, revealing a small yard and the back of the old magistrates’ court.
It was possibly the first time she’d said ‘Merrily’, rather than ‘Ms Watkins’. Using the first name the way police talked to suspects – patronizing, to make them feel lowly and vulnerable.
Right now, it was entirely superfluous. Merrily sat in an armless chair, one with aluminium legs. She felt sick, wishing she’d said no to the scones. And to Gerard Stock.
The last time she and Annie Howe had been face to face, Howe had said, I don’t know how you people can pretend to do your job at all. To me, it’s a complete fantasy world.
Merrily put her hands on her knees. ‘Where’s Lol?’
‘Robinson’s being interviewed separately, by Inspector Bliss.’
‘Frannie Bliss?’
‘If you only knew,’ Howe said, ‘how badly I’m wishing there was something I could charge you with.’
She was in white blouse, black skirt. Her ash-blonde hair was tied back. She was wearing maybe a little eyeshadow, mauvish. If she’d worn glasses they would doubtless have been rimless, like a Nazi dentist’s – Jane’s line. Merrily thought, There is absolutely nothing I can tell this woman that she’s going to believe.
She bit her lower lip. The whole office was painted butcher’s-shop white. There were no plants, no photographs. The calendar did not have a picture; it was framed in a metal box, and you expected it to have ten days in a week, ten months in a year. Andy Mumford sat in the corner by the door, presumably in case Merrily should try to do a runner.
‘Still,’ Annie Howe said, ‘I suppose by the time you leave here, you’ll at least be in a better position to assess your own degree of responsibility.’ She ejected the videotape from the machine. ‘At some point you and I will have to watch it all the way through, to verify certain points. Did you know you were being recorded?’
‘No. It never even occurred to me.’
‘Two cameras.’ Howe went to sit behind her desk, which was away from the limited distraction of the window. ‘Semiprofessionaclass="underline" one digital, one hi-eight. Both of them wedged between timbers in the ceiling. It’s a fairly primitive ceiling, with small holes and gaps all over it, so all he had to do was prise up a couple of boards in the bedroom and position the cameras underneath – one wide-angle, one focused on the table. Why do you think he wanted it all on tape?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Of the suggestions so far, the most likely is that he may have been planning to make the material available for some future television documentary. I’m told he’s always looking to the main chance. Perhaps – let’s not overestimate the man’s intelligence – perhaps he thought he might even capture something looking vaguely paranormal.’
‘Media-oriented, I suppose. He’s a… professional PR man.’
‘Really? According to people in the village, he’s a washed-up drunk.’