Sounding almost pleased. Bliss extracted an egg sarnie.
‘But it’s not totally our fault, is it, Tezza? As we’re severely undermanned, underfunded and overburdened with bureaucratic shite. I think we need to quietly point this out to the media.’
‘Quietly, how?’
‘I was thinking you, actually. When you go back out there, I thought you could find out which pub they’re occupying, join them for a butty, exchange a few confidences. You’ve got the look of a boozer, Tez, it’s the veins in your nose. They like that. Maybe you could find out what Sollers is telling them on the side, and what they think of him.’
‘You don’t like Sollers Bull, do you, boss?’ Karen said.
A wholesome country girl, but smart.
‘Karen, what were his relations with Mansel, do you think?’
‘Big old family.’
‘It’s not the frigging Royal family, Karen.’
‘It’s near enough, in this county. You should know, you married into the fringes of… all that.’
Bliss scowled.
‘Sorry,’ Karen said.
‘I was sensing a distance, between Sollers and his brother,’ Bliss said. ‘The way he kept telling me what a well-respected man he was. No conspicuous affection.’
‘With respect, boss, he wouldn’t show that in front of you.’
‘But they weren’t mates. Big age gap. Not exactly grief-stricken, is what I’m saying. And he’s very likely going to inherit a big slab of prime riverside acreage, plus a small mansion. Mansel had no wife left, no kids.’
‘I heard that’s why they’re history,’ Terry said, ‘the wives.’
‘That’s what Billy Grace thought. Mansel wanted an heir to Oldcastle but refused to believe it might be his fault he didn’t get one. Bottom line, looks like Sollers could be in line for most of it. They were partners.’
‘You want to be a bit careful, boss, that’s all,’ Karen said. ‘Under the circumstances.’
‘I’m doing me job.’ Bliss threw up his hands. ‘He’s got form.’ ‘He was nicked for exercising his countryman’s right to protest about what he considered to be an unjust law.’
‘ You think he’s a hero, do you, Karen?’
‘I think he’s clever. University, then business college? Big on diversification – farm shop, restaurant…’
‘We frequent his restaurant, do we?’
‘No, but my mum works there.’ Karen split a Kit Kat. ‘What’s the DCI’s line? Something this big, I keep expecting her to come stalking in, rapping knuckles. But she stays in Worcester. Odd, that.’
‘She’s been in court.’
‘Not over the weekend. I mean, she was here, but not for long.’
Terry Stagg said, ‘Maybe keeping out of the line of fire. Let the DI cop the flack.’
‘Not the only odd thing, when you think about it,’ Karen said, thoughtful. ‘She does that spell as acting-super here and then gets offered Thames Valley, which – unless I’ve got this wrong – would’ve been about six months under a superintendent coming up to retirement. On a promise. Why didn’t she go for that? Not the Howe we know, is it?’
Terry Stagg smiled greasily through his unsightly stubble.
‘Maybe she has other things she wouldn’t want to leave behind.’ Grinned at Bliss. ‘Father’s daughter?’
‘OK,’ Bliss said, ‘let’s just…’
‘That’s crap.’ Karen shaking her head. ‘Even I don’t think she’s bent.’
‘That case…’ Terry brushing crumbs off his tie ‘… maybe she’s finally getting herself seen to.’
Shit. Bliss was looking down at his desk, turning over the forensics, feigning lack of interest, when he heard Karen go, ‘It’s not you, is it?’
His gut went tight as a drum.
His head came up very slowly – a struggle to frame some flip reply, until he saw she was looking at Terry Stagg.
A joke. How many of these frigging jokes could his heart take? He watched Stagg shudder.
‘Why is Karen trying to give me nightmares, boss?’
‘She’s actually not bad-looking,’ Karen said. ‘In her austere way.’
‘Karen…’ Terry Stagg blinked. ‘That woman’s a metal coat hanger with tits. It’d be like, you know, with a plastic doll or something? Staring over your shoulder with glazed eyes. Anyway, nobody’s yet proved to me she’s not a lezzer.’
‘ How many times we been through that?’ Karen said.
‘Does a brilliant impression of a woman who hates men.’
‘Gay women cops, Staggie – man-friendly. Always. Am I right, boss?’
‘Sorry, Karen?’ Bliss tried not to look too concerned either way. ‘I was just wondering how Terry knows so much about having sex with a plastic doll. That was a very telling detail about the way their eyes stare over your shoulder.’
Karen giggled.
‘Sod off,’ Terry Stagg said, going not quite red.
‘Boss.’ Bliss relaxed. As best he could these days.
He stood fingering the loose change and the car keys in his pockets, unhappy about the way Annie Howe’s uncharacteristic professional restraint had been spotted. Had they also noticed how readily she’d trusted him to handle a major inquiry of national interest?
‘Karen?’
On their own now in his office, Terry Stagg heading back to the crime scene.
‘Mmm?’
‘Karen, look, I’m gonna come over all pathetic now. Is there any kind of rumour going round? About me.’
‘What? About being gay?’ Karen grinned, then saw his face. ‘Sorry, boss, I’m not sure what you’re asking me. If you mean Kirsty… a wonky marriage’s hardly got novelty value in this place.’
‘Nothing else? I apologize for sounding girlie.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well?’
‘Unless I’ve failed to pick up on something, I’d say the pressure of a high-profile murder investigation, combined with your domestic issues, is making you just a bit paranoid.’
‘So nothing?’
‘Nothing. Frannie, I’d know. And if I knew, I’d tell you.’
Should’ve kept his gob shut. She’d be curious now. And Kirsty… Kirsty still knew something. But from whom? Who’d found out about him and Annie and passed it on?
‘Things’ll get better, boss,’ Karen said.
‘Yeh,’ Bliss said, as Gwyn Adamson, office manager on the Mansel inquiry, came over with an envelope.
‘Couple of things, Francis. One’s an eyewitness report from a petrol station at Leominster. Bloke apparently was dropped from a car and then escorted by two men into a four-by-four. As he was getting in, someone pulled a bag over his head.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last Wednesday night. Two nights before Mansel was killed. No indication of duress. Witness thought it was a joke. However this…’ Gwyn handed Bliss the envelope ‘… is more interesting. Came in the lunchtime post, just addressed to Police, Hereford. Could be a crank job, but…’
Bliss accepted a folded sheet of A4. Computer printout.
The word BLOOD all over it.
12
These were two pains that shewed in the blessed head: the first wrought to the drying while his body was moist, and that other slow, with blowing of wind from without, that dryed him more…
The sky, through the scullery window, was scored with raw pink cloud. Easter was coming, and Easter Week at the end of March would sometimes mean snow. Nobody here would be surprised after what last winter had hurled at them.
…and pained with cold, more than my heart could hold… and The shewing of Christ’s pains filled me full of pains.
Merrily folded down the corner of the page, shut the paperback. It was still scary. It had the feel of reportage. Informed, forensic, almost dispassionate reportage. Nothing quite like it before or since.
There’d been a few blank faces when she’d brought it out in church yesterday, Palm Sunday.
This had been after the evening meditation, attended by the more thoughtful, committed parishioners, all ten of them.
‘Julian of Norwich.’ Holding up the paperback. ‘A woman. Mother Julian. A nun. An anchoress, or recluse, and a mystic. In 1373, when she was just thirty, she became very ill and nearly died, and that was when she experienced the series of visions she discusses here.’