Endtime
The smaller caravan was all black, but in the windows of the big one there was a steamy grey-white glow, weaker than the muffled moon.
Terry Stagg held up the open padlock, the metal gate already hanging loose. Bliss nodded, went through the opening into Coleman’s Meadow. The night was still and cold and unfriendly as an unlit cellar.
Three uniforms behind them. They’d all come in Gomer Parry’s jeep, the old bugger still at the wheel, having refused to hand over the keys on the grounds none of them was insured. All too often this job was close to dark comedy.
‘We’ll knock, I think,’ Bliss whispered.
It wasn’t necessary. The metal door was hanging open, a big man standing at the top of the two steps, with the mean light behind him. He was wearing a rugby shirt and he had a beer bottle in his right hand. He took in Bliss from boots to beanie.
‘The fuck are you? Know what time this is?’
‘It’s almost one a.m., Mr Blore.’ Bliss could no more call him
Felt his blood racing. Hadn’t expected this. Not Blore himself, forsaking his nice comfy room back at the Swan for a wet Christmas dawn in Coleman’s Meadow. Only one possible reason for this. He was either not alone or not expecting to be alone for long.
‘If you’re here about the flooding,’ Blore said, ‘we’ve been spared. Which is just as well ’cause I’m back on the job on Boxing Day.’
Bliss beamed.
‘My information is you were on the job this very evening, sir.’
‘Well, your information is wrong.’
Blore didn’t get it. Perhaps just as well. Bliss jerked a thumb at his companion with the ancient anorak and the greying moustache.
‘My colleague DC Stagg. Have you seen your security officer tonight, sir?’
‘No. But then I wouldn’t expect to. He’s gone home for Christmas.’
‘You don’t need security over Christmas?’
‘Why I’m here… Inspector, was it?’
‘That not a bit of a risk, personal-safety wise, Mr Blore?’
‘Self-employed,’ Blore said. ‘Means I can give the nanny state the finger.’
‘Sure about that, are we, Mr Blore?’ Bliss hated cops who called people
‘Who’s Glyn?’
‘Did I say Glyn? I meant Gregory.’
‘No.’
‘It’s not a nice night, Mr Blore. Would you mind if we came in?’
‘Yes, I would, actually. You arrive at my excavation in the early hours of Christmas morning, you ask me inane questions without giving me a good reason and now you want to invade my limited fucking
‘Mr Blore…’ Bliss sighed. ‘I won’t pretend I’ve gorra warrant, but if you don’t invite me in, my lads will just camp outside until I get one brought to Caple End, by which time I’ll’ve become
Blore sniffed and stood to one side.
‘Be my guest, then.’
When the church was empty, Merrily unplugged the Christmas tree, switched out the lights and stood alone, watching deep Gothic windows coming silently to a grey and ghostly half life.
At the door, she said a prayer for Shirley’s soul, followed by the Lord’s Prayer and a precautionary St Patrick’s Breastplate. Then she grabbed her coat from the peg over the prayer book rack, went out and locked up, and in the porch her breath came out very like a long-suppressed sob.
She’d made herself stand there in the pulpit, her foot inside a wellington touching one of dead Shirley’s hands. Standing there, slowly becoming aware of the smell, very calmly apologising to the bemused, restive, overtired and disappointed congregation, explaining that the village was now at the centre of a murder investigation and that nobody was being allowed to leave for the present. Suggesting that those who couldn’t go home should go across to the Swan for the time being.
And that those villagers who could go home should not go alone.
She hadn’t told Uncle Ted what was inside the pulpit, certainly not Edna Huws. Outside, she found Lol and Jane and Eirion waiting under the lych-gate, like some kind of dysfunctional family.
‘Home?’ Jane said.
‘Swan, I’m afraid, flower.’
At the Black Swan, Barry took them in his office, explained that Superintendent Howe and the other policewoman had borrowed his car to take Mrs Winterson to Caple End.
Sounded like Leonora had been arrested, was going to be handed over at the bridge to cops from Hereford.
‘Howe’ll be back?’
‘That’s what she said.’ Barry spread his hands, someone outside shouting for him. ‘You’ll have to excuse me—’
‘Sure… OK.’ Merrily handed the bunch of church keys on a rusting ring, like gaoler’s keys, to Eirion. ‘Could you give those to Annie Howe when she gets back? Needs to be Eirion,’ she said to Jane. ‘You and Howe have too much history.’
‘Mum…?’
‘OK…’
Merrily told them and watched Jane go instantly pale. Throwing an arm around the kid in a way she hadn’t done for years. Not since Jane had become that little taller than her mother.
Both of them aware, at this moment, of how close…
‘Don’t give the keys to anyone else. Don’t, of course, go in. Under any circumstances.’
‘
‘It’s… likely.’
A puncture in the coat, a little blood like a cluster of holly berries. Maybe Shirley disturbed him smashing the stained-glass window or the rood screen, scattering the chairs.
Jane said distantly, ‘He said the trick was to let other people do the dying.’ She looked up at Merrily. ‘Why are you leaving the keys with—? Where are you going?’
‘We have to go and find Bliss. We have to tell him about this.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Lol, I think.’
‘But, like… why don’t you just ring him on his mobile?’
‘Because I’ve tried, and Coleman’s Meadow seems to be one of those blank spots. If he’s talking to Blore, he needs this.’
‘We’ll all go,’ Jane said.
‘No, we won’t.’
The caravan had three rooms and Gregory wasn’t in any of them.
On a table in the very plush living room, heated by Calor gas, there were two beer bottles, but that didn’t mean anything.
What had probably happened, Bliss figured, was that they’d heard the jeep approaching and Blore had simply opened the door and let him out and stayed in the doorway drinking his beer. Arrogant twat.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Blore. Everything seems in order.’
