about in his grave. I don't want them looking at storm clouds and not seeing formations of cumulonimbus but the Hounds of Annwn gathering for the hunt. l just don't believe—'
'You don't believe in anything!' Buddug said, smiling, eyes suddenly alight. 'And this is not a place for people who do not believe in anything. Playtime is over. Time to bring them in.'
She rang the brass handbell with powerful twists of an old milkmaid's wrist.
Chapter XI
The rolling countryside of the Cotswolds was turning out to be good therapy for Berry's car, which had been a mite bronchitic of late.
He drove an old Austin Healey Sprite of a colour which, when the Sprite was born, was known as British Racing Green. He loved this car. It coughed and rattled sometimes and was as uncomfortable as hell, but it was the fulfillment of a dream he'd had since seeing an old detective show back in the States called Harry O, whose hero drove a British MG sports car and was, even by Californian standards, very laid back.
The Cotswolds, also, were laid back, often in a surprisingly Californian way: rich homes sprawled languidly behind lush foliage which was not so lush that you couldn't admire the beautiful bodies of the houses and their gorgeous Cotswold tans. Was this what remained of olde England: a burglar alarm and a Volvo estate car outside some cottage originally built for farm workers who couldn't afford their own cart?
Touch of therapy for Berry too, to be out here. Distances were negligible in Britain. Couple of hours ago he'd been in the office, the combination of events and Miranda ensuring that by the time he arrived at work he was already feeling overtired. This had cut no ice at all with American Newsnet's London bureau chief, Addison Walls, who'd ordered him to go at once to Gloucestershire, where the Government's Energy Secretary had his country home. The Minister was to give an unofficial Press conference explaining why he'd chosen to resign over the Oil Crisis.
'Anybody in the States give a shit about this?' Berry had asked, and Addison Walls looked at him like he was crazy.
'Morelli, watch my lips. The Oil Crisis. O-I–L.'
'Yeah, yeah, OK. Just tired, is all.'
'Get outta here.' muttered Addison Walls. 'Fuckin' radical.'
When he finally arrived at what turned out to be quite a modest Cotswold farmhouse — barely an acre of land around it — Berry learned he'd missed the Press conference by a good twenty minutes. He found two reporters chatting by their cars in the lane. One was Shirley Gillies of the BBC with a black Uher tape recorder over her shoulder. The other was Giles Freeman, his wheat-coloured hair uncombed and grey circles under his eyes.
'Don't worry about it. mate.' he told Berry, waving a weary, dismissive hand. 'Wasn't worth coming. Terse statement, nothing new in it. Wouldn't answer questions. Posed for a few simpering pictures with his wife. Didn't offer us coffee.'
'Giles rebuked him for wasting our time.' Shirley Gillies said. I'm afraid if I spoke like that to a Government minister, the next farewell piss-up would be mine, but he as good as apologised to Giles. Who can be quite impressive when he's sober.'
Giles, who was wearing a crumpled cream suit, shrugged in a what-the-hell kind of way. The attitude of a guy who wasn't planning to be around much longer. Berry thought.
He hesitated then said. 'Ah, talking of farewell piss-ups. I suppose you…'
Giles sighed. 'It was all round the office. What can I say? I feel awful. Easy to say, 'if only I'd known.' I mean, God—'
Berry wondered if this might be the time to fulfil his obligation to put the arm on Giles. He couldn't, however, say anything with Shirley around. Couldn't think, anyway, how to start. Suppose Old Winstone was simply paranoid?
'Still, I suppose if he'd had a choice of where to snuff it,' Giles said, 'he'd probably have opted for the pub.'
'I gather you were still there. Berry,' Shirley Gillies said brightly, 'when it happened.'
'Yeah,' Berry said. 'Tell you about it sometime'
'Yes,' Shirley said, clearly meaning no. 'Look. I must go. See you around, Giles.'
Giles and Berry stood in silence in the Colswold lane as Shirley loaded her gear into her car. It was a soft, dull summer morning, still moist from last night's rain.
'Bloody awful smug place, this,' Giles said. 'Not exactly nature in the raw. is it? Not like—' He broke off.
'You gonna give me the Minister's statement?'
'Sure. Let's find a pub. You don't have to rush back?'
Berry shook his head. Giles said abruptly, 'We're nowhere near bloody Painswick, are we?'
'Now how would I know that?'
'Claire's mother lives near Painswick. Wouldn't like to run into the old bat. Not just now. I wouldn't be responsible.'
Berry followed Giles's silver BMW in his beat-up Sprite. They motored through shimmering ochre villages before pulling up at Hollywood's idea of an olde English pub, outside which Giles had detected an obscure Real Ale sign. They sat on upholstered wooden stools at the bar, the first customers of the day. On Giles's recommendation. Berry ordered two halves of something even thicker and murkier than Hollywood's idea of English beer.
'Hair of the dog.' Giles said. 'Bloody animal.'
'He'd hate you to feel bad about this, Giles. He was very fond of you and Claire. Winstone, I mean.'
Giles found a lop-sided smile. He told Berry a couple of funny Old Winstone anecdotes from way back. Berry had heard both before, but he chuckled over them anyway, for Giles's sake, assuring him again that Winstone had in no way been offended by the way he'd stormed out of the bar and no, there was no way it had caused any stress which might have hastened the stroke.
'That story he told.' Berry said, fishing for a reaction.
'About the domestic murder and the Welsh landlady and all. I guess it was kind of a Winstone parable. He'd been hearing about how bad things were over in Wales. Folks feeling their heritage was being ripped off. Dumb foreigners on a back-to-nature trip stampeding the sacred cows.'
'Yes.' Giles said. 'But, don't you go thinking we're going to be like that. Claire and me. We aren't going to march in like bloody yuppies on the make. We'll learn the language, the whole bit. Go, er, go native. Well…I… You're not really interested in hearing this, are you, Berry?'
'I am, Giles.'
'You sure? I think people were bored last night.'
'No way, Giles. Jealous, is all.'
'You think that?'
'Sure. Tell me about Wales, Giles.'
Giles shrugged and had a slurp of Real Ale. 'Well, for a start, even though she'd never even been there before this, Claire has very strong family links with this village. Y Groes. So we feel we're… reviving something. And reviving ourselves in the process. Do you know what I mean?'
'When I was a kid.' Berry said, 'they used to tell me my great grandpa made the best pasta in Venice. That doesn't mean that to find eternal fulfilment I have to be a fucking gondolier'
Giles gave him a warning look and started rocking on his bar stool. 'Look, poor old Winstone struck a nerve when I was pissed. I'm sorry about that, but it doesn't change anything. You hear about Burnham-Lloyd?'
'Who?'
Giles told Berry about the impending by-election. It seemed to restore his mood. 'Brilliant timing, don't you think? Not just another midterm by-election, old son.' He was holding his beer to the light and nodding appreciatively at tiny specks in the amber fluid. Berry pushed his own glass away in disgust.
'Burnham-Lloyd.' Giles said. 'Tory, OK? Held that seat for over thirty years on the strength of being a local chap, well in with the farmers, all that. But Plaid Cymru — that's the Welsh nationalist party — have been slowly
