To Dream of the Dead

I really have to answer that?’

‘Professor Blore, to what extent do you think that inflammatory statements made by… iconic figures like yourself can inspire extreme behaviour in… shall we say people who might already be a bit unstable?’

‘Oh, for…’

For a moment, Bill Blore seemed to bulge through the gate, and you thought its bars might actually bend, like in an animation movie, as his patience snapped.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve said all I want to say about this issue, so why don’t you all just piss off now, eh?’

Then he turned and strode back through the cold red mud towards the tents, leaving the security guy, Gregory, to mind the gate, and Jane going, like, Wow.

Impressed as hell, but maybe just a little bit scared of him now.

30 A Cold Heart

Sitting on a corner of his desk, Bliss jabbed a copy of The Times.

‘What is this? I mean why? What’s she hoping to achieve, letting this stuff out, a frigging witch-hunt?’

It wasn’t the lead story, like in the redtops, but prominent enough down the side of the front page and in more detail.

‘I think it’s already started.’ Karen Dowell quietly shut Bliss’s office door, came and sat down. After a long night on computer duty, Karen had the rest of the day off. ‘Tried to get you last night, boss. Two things. A — Ayling’s body had stab wounds, B — they were bringing someone in.’

‘When was this?’

‘Half-eleven?’

Bliss came off the desk. Nobody had told him. Nobody downstairs had even hinted. But perhaps they didn’t know either, the way Howe had walled herself up in the Blackfriars school with this little coterie of cronies, safe from prying eyes and the Gaol Street telegraph.

‘Your phone was switched off.’

Yeh, it had been. He’d gone to bed, slept like the dead. If anybody called him, well, tough; DI Bliss was in recovery.

‘We were systematically working through the names on the Watkins computer,’ Karen said, ‘and we found a handful they thought were worth looking at who were, you know, within easy pulling distance. This particular guy — great excitement. Terry Stagg phoned him. Bingo.’

‘Same voice?’

‘He’s even admitted it.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Wilford Hawkes,’ Karen said. ‘Real old hippie. Has a small-holding with his wife and two other women — gay partners, looks like — up beyond Dinedor village. They plant stuff in accordance with the phases of the moon.’

‘That makes them Serpent-worshippers?’

‘Well… pentagram weather vane on the roof, that kind of thing. But I reckon the real issue is that when the road’s built, they’ll have heavy-goods traffic about twenty metres from their hedge.’

‘And he’s put his hand up?’

‘To the call. Nothing else so far.’

‘No charge?’

Hoping there wasn’t. Wanting these twats to struggle all the way — at least, all the time he wasn’t part of it.

‘Not when I left,’ Karen said. ‘But who knows?’

Bliss pictured Howe and Brent patting themselves on the back, toasting each other in decaff.

‘Why did they put this out about the quartz?’

‘They didn’t mention quartz, boss. Just stones. Didn’t mention the eyes, either. Just said “stones found with the head”. It went out late afternoon — press statement issued before the body was found in the river. And then we brought the computer in and it all took off,’ Karen said.

‘What about the wife and the other women?’

‘Interviewed but not brought in. Ma’am’s still keen on Wilford.’

‘You seen him?’

‘I’ve seen the first interview.’

‘And?’

‘Hard to say. You’re better at this than me, boss. Look, I’d better be off, it’s my boyfriend’s birthday.’

‘Yeh. OK. Have a good one,’ Bliss said. ‘Thanks, Karen.’

She was a good girl. When she’d gone Bliss pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sat down. On his desk, an early Christmas present from Howe, was the thin file containing copies of computer-printed letters purporting to come from anonymous residents of the same Hereford suburb and identifying a cocaine dealer in their midst. Normally, given the location, it would have been quite interesting. With the Ayling case on it was a job for a DS, at most. At the top of the first letter, Howe had written, Francis — we should go for this one ASAP.

Bitch.

Bliss picked up the top letter.

We have decided that we can no longer put up with this filthy trade in a decent area. Some of us have teenage children or younger and we do not want them to grow up thinking this is how all adults behave.

Two anonymous letters saying much the same, arriving at Gaol Street in the same post, naming the same man, Gyles Banks-Jones. Gyles ran a jewellery business, sometimes marketing his designer products at home gatherings, like the old Tupperware parties Bliss’s mum used to host. Other products as well, allegedly.

We understand he keeps the drugs at his home and can be expected to have plentiful supplies for Christmas. We urge you to take action.

Some quite detailed information about specific parties held in this particular area of the city where Banks- Jones lived. So many that the residents must be dripping with designer bling. The letters, Bliss decided, were a committee job. Sounded like residents must be seriously split on the question of whether Mr Banks-Jones was a good or a bad thing.

Wearily, Bliss unwrapped a packet of chewing gum. This complaint had probably been lying around for weeks. Recreational drugs… it was going on everywhere, and you could waste manpower for months watching a guy like this: no form, a clean-skin, cleaner than clean. And anonymous letters were bugger-all use; you needed names, serviceable witnesses. Punters never seemed to be aware of the requirements of the CPS.

Then, a couple of days ago, the third letter had arrived.

It had gone directly to Headquarters.

And it was signed. It came from Alan Sandison, a recent arrival in the area, who had attended a party with his wife at which Mr Banks-Jones had brought out his glittering wares along with a number of small packages which had been eagerly opened in the kitchen and widely snorted.

The neighbours who had invited the Sandisons to their party had failed to realise — probably too stoned to work out why he wasn’t down the pub on a Sunday lunchtime — that Alan Sandison was a Baptist minister.

Sometimes you had to laugh.

Mr Sandison stated that he was prepared to give evidence in court against Gyles Banks-Jones but not against his immediate neighbours who, he believed, had been led astray, poor lambs.