When Mrs Morningwood had brought down an old brown case, Merrily had one last try.
‘I know a good copper. A decent guy.’
Mrs Morningwood had held out her cigarette to Merrily’s lighter, both hands trembling.
‘Wasting your breath, darling.’
‘He was on foot,’ Merrily said. ‘Where could he have been going when I saw him?’
‘Anywhere.’ Watery blood soaking into the wobbling cigarette from lips failing to grip. ‘Over the hill and far away.’
38
Doormat
ON THE WAY here, Lol had glimpsed a signpost and braked. At the next junction, he’d turned round and gone back. Sat in the cab of the truck, gazing at the three words on the sign. A name with only one meaning. A place of sorrowful pilgrimage.
He hadn’t realized that he was going to be so close. No time now, but there would be no excuse on the way back. He’d turned round again and driven on into the Warwickshire countryside, and now the Animal was in an off-road parking area a short way from the castle lodge.
A burger van was opening up at the far end. The big man in the long tan leather coat evidently knew the burger guy because he walked past him without a glance, directly to Lol’s truck, and Lol lowered his window.
Five times he’d attempted to call Merrily on her mobile. It was always switched off. He’d left two messages, the first one explaining he had a chance to talk to Lord Stourport and how far did she want him to go? The second one saying that if she didn’t call back within twenty minutes he was going to be late.
‘Yow got business here, pal?’ the man in the leather coat said.
Lol told him he had an appointment with Lord Stourport in – he looked at the dashboard clock – twelve minutes?
The man, who had gelled hair and chewed gum, asked for his name and Lol told him, and the man nodded and went back to the lodge. Lol sat back and waited and kept seeing the signpost in his mind’s eye.
He’d never been there. He’d spoken to dozens of people who had been, some travelling hundreds of miles. But, all these years, he’d avoided it. What good would it do now?
When his phone rang, he didn’t even look at the caller’s number.
‘Merrily.’
‘Uh, no. Lol, its me … it’s Eirion, it is.’
‘Oh,’ Lol said. ‘Hello, Eirion.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d probably be gigging at night. Saw a piece on you. In Mojo? They’d reviewed your gig in Oxford, did you know?’
‘No, I didn’t. Eirion, look—’
‘It was pretty good.’ Eirion’s South Wales accent kicking in, usually a sign of nerves. ‘It was this guy who’d seen you in Hazey Jane when he was young. He said Hazey Jane were never quite as good as they might have been. Or as good as they would be now if they’d had the quality of material you’re producing at the moment. Something like that.’
‘Well, that’s …’
‘Pretty positive.’
‘… Not really the reason for your call, is it?’
‘Er, no,’ Eirion said. ‘No, it isn’t.’
This would have to be about Jane who, according to Merrily, had not heard from Eirion for a couple of weeks and was thinking she’d been dumped. And he’d love to find out something that might help, but this really wasn’t a good time.
‘Eirion, could I call you back? I’m expecting—’
‘Lol, please … could you give me just two minutes? One minute.’
‘Well … yeah, OK. As long as it—’
‘Only I rang the vicarage, see, I was going to ask Mrs Watkins, but this other woman answered. Is there something wrong, Lol? Have they – you know – gone?’
‘Where?’
‘Gone. Left.’
‘Good God, no.’
‘Then why isn’t she returning my calls, Lol?’
‘Jane isn’t returning your calls?’
‘See, I didn’t want to bother you with this, it’s not like she’s your daughter or anything, but I’m going crazy here, man.’
‘Well, you know … this is difficult, but the impression we were given was that, now you’re at university … your lives had kind of taken different paths?’
‘I’m at Cardiff! It’s less than an hour and a quarter away. I come back every weekend. I mean, you know, I could’ve gone to Oxford.’
‘You could have?’
‘They’d accepted me. It was a bit borderline, but they said yes.’
‘You turned down Oxford so you could be nearer to Jane?’
‘My old man’s still fuming. Weeks before he’d even talk to me.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Lol said.
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘Does Jane know?’
‘I told her … I said they’d turned me down.’
‘Eirion!’
‘Don’t say anything, will you?’
‘I don’t— How many calls have you made?’
‘To Jane? Bloody dozens. Her phones’s always switched off, and I leave messages and she doesn’t call back.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘She’s with someone else, right? It’s this bloody archaeologist, isn’t it?’
‘I … I don’t know.’
‘You know he’s married, don’t you? And he’s nearly thirty. I mean, he’s married. All right, Jane, she can be … you know … I mean, you know what she can be …’
‘Yeah.’
‘And yet … you know what I mean?’
‘Oh yes,’ Lol said.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be hanging this on you.’
‘I’ll talk to her, OK? I’ll find out something. Look, I’ll call you back … maybe tomorrow?’
The man in the leather coat was standing outside the lodge, beckoning, pointing to the gates. Telling Lol it was time.
The vicarage was immaculately tidy, and Siân had made a coal fire in the parlour and banked it up. This was thoughtful; Merrily rarely lit a fire before evening.
Upstairs, the guest room looked like Siân had never been there. It was at the rear of the house, overlooking the old Powell orchard. The sun had come out and ripe apples gleamed like baubles. Roscoe plodded around on the oak boards, and Merrily’s move to replace the duvet cover with a fresh one got a dismissive wave of the hand from Mrs Morningwood.
‘Don’t bother, it’ll only be stinking of this stuff by morning.’
Jars and bottles, some labelled, were set out on the pine dresser with a glass and a spoon. She’d accepted a cup of weak tea, declined food. Merrily sat on the edge of the bed.
‘At the risk of—’
‘No.’
‘I’m thinking, primarily, of the head injuries. The doctor here, he’s not exactly a fan of alternative remedies, but he could at least put your mind at rest.’
‘You mean your mind. It’s not necessary. I don’t have a skull fracture, and even if I did—’
‘He doesn’t need to know what happened to you.’
Knowing, as she said it, that she was wrong. Kent Asprey would need to know and, while Mrs Morningwood might get away with her story about the head injury, how many people emerged from car crashes with strangulation marks?
‘Sooner or later this is going to hit you, Muriel.’
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘No, I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. You get some rest, I’ll pace around for a couple of hours.’
When she turned at the door, Mrs Morningwood was standing by the window, a wounded smile on damaged lips. Or maybe not a smile at all, just the wound. It just had to be someone she knew.