lights on the square. Some churches were floodlit; Mum wouldn’t have that.
The lantern over the porch still gilded the cindered path, which had been the old coffin trail, and it was enough.
‘Could be some of the neolithic stones are in the church’s foundations,’ Jane said. ‘I
She was back in high spirits, since Eirion’s suggestion that what Coops hadn’t wanted her to know was the way Blore had manipulated her. And totally energised by the thought of what this could mean for the future of the village. Despite the endless rain, the night seemed incandescent. She looked up into the sky, throwing back her hood, letting it all come racing down on her, washing away the uncertainty.
She was remembering standing on top of Cole Hill, bare-armed in the summer, and seeing the steeple as the gnomon of a great sundial. And she’d been right. She’d been right all along. It didn’t matter what the sneering students thought, or the professors of archaeology behind their narrow-minded, self-protective—
‘Oh Christ,’ Eirion said.
Jane looked down to find him bending over Lucy’s grave, water glinting in the moss on the headstone’s curve. The moss should never be removed, it said in Lucy’s will. Let the stone be a stone.
She ran to Eirion’s side, slithering on the slimy grass.
It had been done in white and not too long ago. Despite the rain you could still smell the paint.
Letters splashed diagonally across the stone, obliterating the lines from Traherne.
Jane looked at it for a long time.
She knelt down in the wet grass, laid her hands either side of the headstone’s wet, velvety rim, holding in her fury.
‘It’s all right,’ she said.
She stood up. Eirion had his hands in his pocket. He stamped the ground angrily with a heel.
‘Turps,’ Jane said. ‘That gets it off, doesn’t it?’
‘There might be something better,’ Eirion said. ‘I’ll go over to the shop—’
‘No, you need to help Lol. You get off to the Swan. I’ll do it.’
‘Jane—’
‘It’s all right. It’s only paint. And she’s mentally ill, anyway.’
‘You know who…?’
‘I’ll scrub it off.’
‘You should tell the police.’
‘What are they going to do, send a helicopter? I don’t want anyone to see this. I want it gone by daylight.’
She walked away, face into the rain, back to the church. Eirion drew alongside her.
‘You can scream, you know. You don’t have anything to prove about maturity. I’d scream, if somebody did that to my friend’s grave.’
‘Lucy would laugh.’ Jane kept on walking, not looking back. ‘And I’ll do my screaming after Christmas. Through the plate-glass screen at the post office.’
‘What are you—?’
‘Let’s go and see if Jim’s got some paint-stripper.’
Her hands felt sticky; she must’ve touched it. She stopped in revulsion and bent down and swirled them around in the surface water on the cinders outside the church porch. Wouldn’t do any good against enamel or whatever this was, but it made her feel…
Oh.
Standing up, under the dusty glow of the wrought-iron lantern above the church porch, she saw that both porch doors had been pulled closed.
And what had been daubed across them.
‘Now you’ll
This was also in white, still wet and bubbled with rainwater.
‘And we’re going to have to tell Mum,’ Jane said. ‘She doesn’t need this.’
Eirion went up the doors. They hadn’t been quite closed, and there was a crack of light.
‘The lights are on inside. Are they usually kept on?’
‘Not any more.’
Eirion grasped both ring handles, pushed the doors open and went in.
55
Option Three
It was probably Victorian but looked older. Georgian or Queen Anne or something. Bliss wasn’t an expert on architecture. It was just a big white house with tall windows converted into flats. Behind it, thousands of lights revealed the spread of the Severn Valley below.
A cool place to live. Classy address, outstanding views and only a short journey to work.
There was the car, the deep green Saab, on the forecourt. He’d been worried that the flat might’ve been vacated in the fifty-five minutes since he’d rung, number withheld, hanging up when he’d had an answer.
Longer drive than expected. Floods everywhere in Worcestershire. Worse than Herefordshire, according to Traffic, advising him on the safest route to Great Malvern. This was around eight p.m., after the Banks-Joneses had been in — statement from Kate, additional statement from Gyles. He’d rung them from Phase Two so as not to alert Steve, and they’d made their own way to Gaol Street.
Not too bad up here, far above river level. He’d left his car parked by the side of the main road. Thought about phoning to say he was here, request an audience. Might be difficult if he was to walk in on a cosy Christmas Eve with the girlfriend.
Decided against, in the end.
There was a short wall around the forecourt. He climbed over it. The rain was lighter here, and he stood for quite a while outside the white-painted front door. The four bell buttons and the names alongside them, surnames only, were softly lit up.
Option Three. Was he really up for this? Was this any less stupid and short-sighted than driving over to Charlie’s place last night?
As he stood with his finger suspended over the second bell push from the top, the one with the shortest name alongside it, the door opened.
Just as smoothly as you’d expect, place like this.
CCTV. Might’ve guessed.
She was wearing light-coloured jeans and a stripy woollen top, and her hair was down and looked freshly washed. She wasn’t smiling, but then it wasn’t Christmas yet.
‘I don’t honestly know what persuaded me to come down, Francis. Must be some kind of warped forensic curiosity.’
She could soften her appearance, but obviously nothing to be done about that drab, vinyl voice.
