The Cold Calling

peace and quiet. She say, Mum, she say, you just a cucumber. Vegetable. Make me so mad sometime.’

‘Maria had integrity,’ Cindy said. ‘She believed that everything had a right to life.’

Mrs Capaldi struggled to the edge of the sofa as the policewoman approached with a cup. ‘I don’ wan’ more tea. I told you, I wan’ see where my daughter die. It’s my right. I wan’ you take me, Cindy, in your car.’

‘As I said, Mrs Capaldi,’ Hatch said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t advise it. Not at the moment. There’ll be press everywhere, and TV crews …’

‘Wassa problem with TV an’ a papers? I don’ wan’ ‘ush this up. I wan’ everybody know what these bastard do.’

Hatch shot an appeal at Cindy, but Cindy pretended not to notice; he said, ‘Of course I’ll take you, my love.’

‘Mr Lewis-’

‘Catharsis, inspector, catharsis. Don’t you think?’

Hatch sighed. ‘All right. In which case, perhaps we should all go with WPC Webber in the police car, or you might have trouble getting past our people.’

Cindy nodded, helping Mrs Capaldi to her feet.

In the event, there were no cameramen, as Hatch must have known. This part of the forest was sealed off by a police road block on the track.

The immediate area was taped. There were several police hanging around, although there didn’t seem to be much for them to do, except to drive away photographers and sensation-seekers, and try not to look at Mrs Capaldi.

‘As soon as you want to leave …’ Hatch said.

She shook her head, waved him away.

‘Peaceful,’ she said. ‘Such a beautiful place. Nowhere is safe any more.’

She’d put on a black hat and black gloves, dark glasses. Being the centre of attention had calmed her, Cindy thought. The irony of it was that, if it hadn’t been family, Mrs Capaldi, who read lurid magazines, would have derived a shivery excitement from being so close to a murder investigation. She crossed herself and walked alone into the trees. Hatch nodded to WPC Webber to follow her.

A soft, early-evening sun cast a pastel glaze on the forest; yes, it was a lovely spot. And yet, left alone, Cindy felt suddenly tense. If this outing was going to be cathartic for Mrs Capaldi, it was having quite the opposite effect on him. There was a sense of imbalance. Of the world itself horribly askew.

A young, bearded detective with a mobile phone came over. ‘Bloody hell, sir, did you know there were no less than four crossbow clubs in the general vicinity? What’s the world coming-Oh, sorry.’

Hatch hustled the detective away from Cindy.

Who was startled. A crossbow? In the paper, it had said simply that Maria had been shot. The police were obviously sitting on the crossbow angle for the moment. What else had they not yet disclosed?

Cindy stood motionless in the clearing. It was still an old woodland. Part of the prehistoric and medieval landscape he liked to walk on Sundays. Fordingbridge to the northwest … a castle mound beyond there … several tumuli … And, of course, as soon as they’d arrived, he’d spotted the motte and bailey nearby. Probably built on a prehistoric site. It would certainly have been here when William Rufus …

He closed his eyes, emptied his mind and at once felt a frigid trembling in his solar plexus and a powerful sense of residual evil around this soft-lit glade.

A crossbow.

An horrific flash-image of Maria with a steel bolt nailing her to the floor of the forest.

He turned away, his hands cold and tingling. He moved to the edge of the tape and walked away along the track for a few yards.

‘Has something occurred to you, Mr Lewis?’ He turned sharply to find DCI Hatch right behind him.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose something has.’

‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘It’s probably already occurred to you. Being a local man. Do you know the story of the death of William II? William Rufus, son of the Conqueror?’

‘Shot in the forest, wasn’t he? By a man with a … oh, right.’

‘A crossbow,’ Cindy said. ‘In this very forest.’

‘About eight hundred years ago, as I recall,’ Hatch said. ‘Unlikely we’re looking for the same man, then.’

‘No.’

‘And no, it hadn’t occurred to me,’ Hatch said flatly, ‘I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps not so much a man, Chief Inspector, as a tradition. We know who killed William. It was his own huntsman, Walter Tirel. During a hunting expedition, the king shot a stag, wounding it, following its flight and holding up his hand, ostensibly to protect his eyes from the brightness of the setting sun. At which signal, Tirel, purporting to aim at another stag, shot the king.’

Hatch said, ‘Signal?’ Showing he had, at least, been paying attention.

‘Do you know the Margaret Murray theory? That William was a ritual sacrifice?’

‘The only Margaret Murray I know,’ Hatch said heavily, ‘is a Labour councillor on the police committee.’

‘This one was an academic. An historian. Dr Murray published her anthropological history of witchcraft and paganism in 1931. Her theory was that although William Rufus might have appeared to support the Church, it seems likely he was a lifelong pagan. As the king, he would have been regarded as a god incarnate, and he was growing old. Well, a god could never grow old or weak or feeble. He must die for his people, to strengthen their attachment to this new land. And, of course, as the king, he was permitted to select the time and circumstances of his own ritual death.’

‘Dubious privilege,’ Hatch said. No doubt thinking, Old Welsh queen’s lost his marbles.

Cindy walked into the centre of the clearing.

‘The king had prepared himself for death, had eaten and drunk well and taken possession of six fresh bolts for his crossbow. Two of which he handed to Walter Tirel before they left. When he was shot, William then broke off the wooden shaft of the bolt and fell upon the stump.’

‘Very interesting, sir,’ Hatch said. ‘But I’d be glad if you wouldn’t mention crossbows to anyone at this stage. Probably be common knowledge by tomorrow, but by then we can’ve pinned down every crossbow-owning nutter between here and-’

Cindy said, ‘Do you see the beauty of it? William let the Earth finish him.’

‘To be honest, Mr Lewis, I don’t see much of a link here. Two crossbow killings eight hundred years apart?’

‘Just thought you should be aware of it, Chief Inspector.’

‘Yes. Thank you very much, sir. Do you think we could persuade Mrs Capaldi to go home now?’

Part One

Stone with magnetic or radioactive properties seems to have been incorporated into some monuments. Certain parts of the brain are sensitive to magnetic fields — particularly the temporal lobe region which houses the organs that process memory, dreams and feeling. There is an archaic tradition of sleeping on stones of power to achieve visions.

Paul Devereux, Earth Memory.