Lol was thinking this was Percy’s routine – his act, his gig, his repertoire, the tales told, rebored, remoulded over many years. What was interesting was the way the anomalies were mingled, some otherworldly and some just odd in an ordinary way. To Percy, there seemed to be no difference. The people who came up from the river, all he could say was that they were greyish and one had a bird’s head, and sometimes you could see through them to the winter trees behind. Oh aye, he’d seen them on three occasions in his life, only for a few seconds, mind, each time. It was when you didn’t see them that they were dangerous. When they got inside your tractor and fiddled about. That was how Harold Wilding had lost a leg, and he was lying there, a new furrow filling up with his blood and he reckoned he could hear them laughing.
Then Percy talked of lightless vans and trucks on the lanes after midnight. Men driven like sheep along the paths, over stiles. They had no faces either. And there were other things Percy had seen but couldn’t talk about.
‘Give him time,’ Bax had murmured.
But there hadn’t been time tonight. Bax had looked at the clock, coming up to half past ten, and said he needed to be off before his wife came back from her rehearsal. He left Percy a couple of baggies, on the sideboard, behind the clock, and they said goodnight.
‘Course, he’ll deny to the end of his days that he’s the least bit superstitious,’ Bax said. ‘He was born here, like his old man, worked hard all his life on this ground, and these things were what happened now and then. Like gales and flooding. Nobody wrote to the papers about it.’
They were leaning on a fence behind Bax’s cottage, looking out towards the darkening fields where villas had stood, with mosaic floors and perhaps bathhouses. And the rows of wooden barracks where the Roman squaddies slept – probably a bit like some of the huts occupied today by migrant workers on the fruit farms, Bax said, only with better facilities.
‘The vehicles with no lights,’ Lol said, ‘and some of the men with no faces…’
‘That’s the Sass, innit? Anyfink odd happens round here, folks exchange glances, nod to one another… and say noffing. They don’t question it. They’re patriots. Whatever fings those boys get up to, it’s done for Queen and country, for the security of us all, so that’s all right, innit?’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Not entirely unknown for them to help themselves to a farmer’s stock, is it, on an exercise? Dropped in the wilderness with no food, and you got to exist for whole days on what you can find in the hedgerows or trap and kill? Been known for them to lift the odd sheep, or a chicken from a farm. Some of the farmers, if they know where they are they give ’em a big fry-up in the barn. Makes sense.’
‘But not round here, surely? This isn’t the wilderness.’
Bax said nothing. Lol gazed over the fields. It felt like they were standing at a sea wall overlooking dark waters, the distant Black Mountains like the far arm of a wide bay.
‘Jones’s place,’ he heard himself say. ‘Can you see it from the road?’
‘Not any more.’
‘No signs to it? I didn’t see any.’
‘Secrecy’s part of the image. The punters like that. So I’m told.’
Lol had the map from the truck.
‘Could you show me where it is? On here?’
Bax sighed, fishing out a spectacle case and holding up the map to the last of the light.
‘What’s these marks all over it?’
‘It’s a ley map we made. Four or five going through Brinsop Church. Don’t know how you feel about leys?’
‘Maybe somefing to it. Lol, look-’
‘Do any of these lines go through Byron’s land?’
‘Lol, mate…’ Bax bent and rubbed his knees then straightened up. ‘I don’t know what to say at this point. You listen to a geezer’s music over the years and you fink you know him. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve very much enjoyed our evening, and I got a great respect for what you do. But we don’t talk about our neighbours.’
‘To strangers.’
‘That’s right.’
‘One day I’ll explain.’
Bax pulled a pen from his jacket.
‘Can I deface this map a bit more?’
‘Feel free.’ Lol held the torch, while Bax worked out some distances then drew a small cross. ‘That’s the farm, is it?’
‘Wiv your line going right frew the top corner, near his boundary, where he had his… excavation. That what this is about? They have a digger, him and his partner from Hardkit. Geezer who owns the land overlooking it reckoned there was archaeologists involved. Dunno what was found. Nothing was ever made public. Then Jones had conifers planted inside his boundary fence.’
‘Hardkit?’ Lol said. ‘You did say Hardkit?’
‘Kenny Mostyn. He owns the Hardkit shops.’
‘He’s Jones’s partner?’
‘You din’t know?’
‘No. No, I didn’t.’
Kenny Mostyn of Hardkit. Byron Jones’s partner, Ward Savitch’s partner, kind of.
‘Do you know of any ancient monument on Jones’s land? Anything they might want to excavate?’
‘No. And he’s… trust me, he’s not the kind of bloke you ask.’
Lol nodded, looking up at the sky, figuring there was a good half-hour of daylight left.
‘Well, I’d better go,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Bax. I’ll send you a copy of the album when it’s out.’
43
Seeing the female silhouette through the frosted door-panel in the dusk, Bliss thought, Annie.
Almost wept. It had come to this. Memories of winter nights when she’d parked around the corner, walked briskly, all muffled up, down the icy drive to the back entrance. The sweet, old-fashioned romance of it.
What a twat he’d become. Bliss unlocked the door, thinking he hadn’t even made the bed.
‘I thought I’d better come round,’ Karen Dowell said. ‘Two reasons. One, I really didn’t like the sound of your voice on the machine.’
Bliss started to laugh and went into a coughing fit.
‘And obviously didn’t get that wrong,’ Karen said.
He’d called her on his mobile from the car, having tried Annie twice – switched off, and he hadn’t left a message. But he’d left one for Karen.
How long have you known?
Because this had so explained Karen’s attitude. Advising him to back off, pass the information about Sollers and the fruit-farm girls to Annie Howe.
You want to be a bit careful, boss, that’s all. Under the circumstances.
Bliss backed up the narrow hallway, switching on lights.
‘Sorry, I was…’
‘Not drinking, I hope.’ Karen stepped into the living room, pulling off her baseball cap, looking around. ‘God. You into minimalism now, Frannie, or is this all she left you?’
‘You want some coffee?’
‘Show me where the stuff is, I’ll make it. I had your coffee once before.’
‘Look.’ He felt stupid now. ‘I didn’t expect you to come over.’
‘I told Craig it was work.’
‘I feel like a twat.’
‘You are a twat. God, Frannie, I thought you knew. I just didn’t see how you could not know.’
‘Well, I didn’t. That’s the kind of shite detective I am.’
Karen stood there, shaking her head. Bulky, uncrushable. Farming stock.
‘And then I thought about it, and I was thinking, well, if by any chance he doesn’t know all the history…’
‘What are you saying, Karen?’
‘Oh my God, you don’t know any of the history, do you?’ Karen tossed her cap on the sofa, from which all the cushions had been stolen. ‘He hasn’t always been a rural pin-up, Frannie. There was a time when being seen around with Kirsty Symonds was serious kudos for a guy like Sollers.’
Bliss stared at her.
‘You’re saying that my wife and Sollers Bull were an item… before?’
‘Sorry to spring that on you.’
‘When?’
‘Quite a while back, actually. Couple of years before you showed your face in Hereford, anyway.’