To Dream of the Dead

‘Bit before my time,’ Bliss said. ‘But a mate, you know. A good mate.’

Bliss had left his car at the back of the Gaol Street pay-and-display, away from prying police eyes. He sat in it for a while. One hand was trembling. Maybe the caffeine and no lunch.

Bitch had excluded him again, frozen him out. It had taken Karen to call and tell him that they’d found Ayling’s body. Nothing from Howe, not even via Brent.

This was about more than just the Shah kid. More than just him trying to keep her out of the Ayling case from the start. This was about Charlie, for definite.

Well, sod her, he’d make sure he was there at 2.30. Drop into the school at the last minute, so neither Howe nor Brent could head him off at the pass. Maybe he’d walk there a bit late. Bide his time and then casually explain the possible significance of the bulk of Ayling turning up in the Wye.

Why the body, not the head? Didn’t know, but it didn’t matter, there was something.

As he took his key out of the ignition he saw something sticking out from under the passenger seat. A small, scuffed book.

He bent and retrieved it.

My Little Pony. Naomi’s. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

What had he done?

Naomi. Seven and a half years old. All her mother’s best qualities, without the difficult bits. Bliss leaned back, holding the book on his knee, eyes squeezed shut. Even trying to focus on Kirsty’s difficult bits, he was reminded of one tender moment somewhere under that white horse in Wiltshire. A feeling of yes, this was right, this was the right thing.

What happened? Where did that go?

He sat up and put the book in the glove box, got out of the car and locked it and walked away, feeling closer to breaking down than at any time since his solo breakfast of burnt toast and brown sauce.

26 Dated Masquerade

As soon as Merrily had rung the bell she pulled back, appalled.

The front door was new. Polished hardwood, expensive. ‘Cole Barn’ carved tastefully into an oak plaque.

She backed away from it, disorientated. Looking around and not recognising anything. As if she’d come here without thinking, taken the wrong turning, walked into the wrong room.

Looking back towards the orchard, you almost could believe there was some primeval energy around that path. Not so much a healing, life-affirming force as something that amplified your anxieties into obsession.

If you were vulnerable. If you’d prayed for advice and received nothing. If you were afraid your daughter was unwittingly linked with someone who had killed and butchered a man. If, wherever you looked, you saw people losing control of their lives and threatening shadows cloaking the same implacable figure: the enemy of faith, the spirit of the secular state. The worm in the apple.

Nobody answered the door.

She breathed out hard, finally turning away. Anticlimax or relief?

Whatever, just get out of here. Walk away. Go home. Consider yourself saved.

All the same, Merrily was reluctant to go back on that same path. Just didn’t want to.

On a ridge at the top of the hedged paddock there was a wooden stile, giving access to Coleman’s Meadow, the platform crane arching over it as if it was offering lifts into the meadow. If she went back that way, at least she’d have something to tell Jane tonight.

The rain was in remission again, the air felt a little fresher. Walking up the sodden field, she became aware of the bell-shaped Cole Hill rising on the other side of the meadow.

So perfect from this angle. Robed in cloud, somehow lighter than the sky. She was aware, for the first time, just how breathtaking it would be, viewed between standing stones.

And stopped, strangely moved, touched by a connection. Was this how Jane felt all the time? Was this what Jane would interpret as pagan consciousness? It didn’t matter. All she knew was that the destruction of this view by Lyndon Pierce’s upmarket estate of fake Tudor executive homes with double and triple garages would be the worst kind of insult both to the living and the long, long dead.

This wasn’t myth. It was the only certainty she’d felt all day.

She felt lighter stepping down from the stile alongside the platform crane, its great arm half raised from the back of a black and yellow truck marked access hire.

Behind it, two men were arguing, blocking the path, one scowling from under a green waterproof hat, the other wearing a red hiking jacket and an expression somewhere between pained and placating.

‘True,’ the hat guy was saying. ‘We did know about it, we knew it was happening, but we were definitely not told it was going to be televised, with all the crap that involves. And I’m not trying to be awkward, but I came here for a bit of peace. To work, you know?’

‘Which I fully — I do understand your situation, and I’m sorry. But with this weather we’ve got way, way, way behind schedule, and we just can’t afford to delay it any longer. I mean, have you any idea—’ the man in the red jacket indicated the crane ‘—what that costs to rent?’

‘With respect, mate, that’s really not my—’

‘All I’m saying is we absolutely need to get a couple of days in before Christmas. And then — I promise you — most of us will clear off for a week or so and leave you in peace. OK?’

‘Where are you getting your power?’ the man in the hat said. ‘Electricity — for lights and things.’

‘Generators.’

‘All of it?’

‘Of course all of it.’

‘No cables leading out? You’ve got any uncovered cables?’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ The man in the hat abruptly turning away. ‘Oh—’ Nearly walked into Merrily. ‘I’m so sorry…’

‘My fault, I think I crept up on you.’

‘No, no, it was my — Look, I’m sorry, are you local? Can I ask you — do you mind? — did you know about this?’

‘Well, I did know about it,’ Merrily said, ‘but I’ve not heard of an official announcement, and I don’t think there’s been anything in the papers.’

‘We never put anything out to the papers in advance,’ the red-jacket guy said. ‘Simply because we don’t want a huge crowd of spectators. Which I’m sure wouldn’t be in your best interests, either, Mr—’

‘Winterson.’

Merrily took a step back, the red-jacket guy saying, ‘Yes, of course. I was going to come round to see if we could talk to you.’

‘You are talking to me.’

‘I meant on camera. I’m sorry, my name’s Mike Brodrick. I’m not an archaeologist, I’m a director with Trench One. What happens, we usually interview either the owner of the site or the person living closest, to learn something about its recent history. I now realise that, in your case, that—’

‘Look, Mike, just…’ Mr Winterson shaking his open hands, irritated ‘… carry on, yeah? Do what you have to do.’

‘Well… thank you. It won’t be anywhere near as disruptive as you think, I promise.’ Mike Brodrick gratefully walking off, calling back over a shoulder. ‘And we’ll have a security man on duty throughout. Day and night.