instance. What I'd like to know is…
Goff's little eyes narrowed. He was wearing, unusually, a dark suit today. Out of respect for the dead Rachel? Or his image.
'Who exactly are you?' he said. 'Which paper you from?'
'Fay Morrison.' Adding, 'Freelance,' with a defiant glance at Ashpole.
'Yeah, I thought so.'
He'd never actually seen her before. He was certainly making up for that now, little eyes never wavering.
'I'm not sure how relevant your question is today,' Goff said. 'But, yeah, on the issue of how we came to be doing what we're doing here, well, we've been kicking this idea around for a year or two. I've had advisers and people looking…'
'What kind of advisers? Who exactly?' The questions were coming out without forethought, she was firing blind. In fact, what the hell was she doing? She hadn't planned to say a word, just sit there and listen.
Goff looked pained. 'Ms Morrison, I don't see… Yeah, OK… I have many friends and associates in what's become known as the New Age movement – let me say, I don't like that term, it's been devalued, trivialized, right? But, yeah, it was suggested to me that if I was looking for a location which was not only geophysically and archaeologically suited to research into forgotten landscape patterns and configurations, but was also suited – shall we say atmospherically – to research into human spiritual potential, then Crybbe fitted the bill.'
He produced a modest, philanthropic sort of smile. 'And it was also clearly a little down on its luck. In need of the economic boost our centre could give it. So I came along and looked around, and I… Well, that answer your question?'
'Was it the late Henry Kettle? Did he suggest you came here?'
'No, I sought advice from Henry Kettle, in a very small way, at a later stage. We were already committed to Crybbe by then. What are you getting at here?'
Goff leaned back in his leather rock-and-swivel chair. He was alone at the desk, although Humble and a couple of people she didn't recognize were seated a few yards away. Fay didn't think Andy Boulton-Trow was among them.
'Well,' she said, still on her feet, 'Henry Kettle was, of course, the
'Aw now, hey,' Goff said.
Several reporters turned their heads to look at Fay. Maybe some of them hadn't heard about Henry. He was hardly a national figure, except in earth-mysteries circles. His death had been a minor local story; his connection with Goff had not been general knowledge, still wasn't, outside Crybbe.
It occurred to her that what she'd inadvertently done here was set the more lurid papers up with a possible Curse of Crybbe story. She imagined Rachel Wade looking down on the scene from wherever she was, rolling her eyes and passing a hand across her brow in pained disbelief.
Fay started to feel just a little foolish. Gavin Ashpole, sitting well away from her, was smirking discreetly into his lap.
She knew Goff had to make a move here.
He did. He gave the hacks a confidential smile.
'Yeah, take a good look,' he said, extending a hand towards Fay. 'This is Ms Fay Morrison.'
More heads turned. Guy's, not surprisingly, was one of the few which didn't.
'Ms Morrison,' drawled Goff, 'is a small-time freelance reporter who earns a crust here in town by stirring up stories nobody else can quite see.'
Some bastard laughed.
'Unfair,' Fay said, starting to sweat, 'Henry Kettle…'
'Henry Kettle' – Goff changed effortlessly to a higher gear – 'was a very elderly man who died when his car went out of control, probably due to a stroke or a heart attack. We'll no doubt find out what happened when the inquest is held. Meantime, I – and any right-thinking, rational person – would certainly take a dim view of any sensation-mongering attempt to make something out of the fact that my company had paid him a few pounds to do a few odd jobs. I think suggesting any link between the death of Henry Kettle in a car accident and Rachel Wade in a fall is in extremely poor taste, indicating a lamentable lack of professionalism – and a certain desperation perhaps – in any self-styled journalist who raised it.'
Goff relaxed, knowing how good he was at this. Fay, who'd never been much of an orator, lapsed, red-faced, into a very lonely silence.
'Now,' Goff said, not looking at her, 'if there are no further questions, I have ten minutes to do any TV and radio interviews outside.'
The heads had turned away from Fay. She'd lost it.
'You don't do yourself any favours, do you. Fay?' Ashpole said drily, out of the side of his mouth, passing her on the way out, not even looking at her.
'I suppose,' Guy Morrison said, 'you'd know about all the suicides around here, wouldn't you?'
Seven p.m. The only other customer in the public bar at the Cock was this large man, the local police sergeant, Wynford somebody. He was leaning on the bar with a pint, obviously relieved at unloading the two Divisional CID men who'd spent the day in town in connection with this Rachel Wade business.
Guy was feeling relieved, too. His heart had dropped when Max Goff had approached him immediately after the conclusion of the appalling press conference – Guy expecting to be held responsible for his wayward ex-wife and, at the very least, warned to keep her out of Goff's way in future.
But all Goff wanted was for the crew to get some aerial pictures of Crybbe from his helicopter, so that was OK. Guy had sent Catrin Jones up with Larry and escaped to the pub. Sooner or later he'd be forced to have a discreet word with Goff and explain where things stood between him and Fay – i.e. that she was an insane bitch and he'd had a lucky escape.
Meanwhile, there was this business of the suicide and the haunting. This was upsetting him. He wouldn't be able to concentrate fully until it was out of the way because Guy Morrison didn't like things he didn't understand.
He waited for Wynford's reaction. He'd got into suicides by suggesting that perhaps Rachel Wade had killed herself. Would they ever really know?
Guy Morrison was an expert at manipulating conversation, but Wynford didn't react at all.
As if he hadn't noticed the silence, Guy said, 'Doesn't do a place's reputation any good, I suppose, being connected with a suicide. I was talking to that woman who runs The Gallery. It seems her house is allegedly haunted by a chap who topped himself.'
Wynford didn't look up from his beer, but he spoke at last. 'You been misinformed, my friend.'
'I don't mean anything recent,' Guy said. 'This probably goes back a good while. Talking about the same place, are we? Heavily renovated stone farmhouse, about half a mile out of town on the Hereford road?'
'Yes, yes,' Wynford said. 'The ole Thomas farm.'
'Well, as I said, it could be going back quite a while. I mean, any time this century, I suppose, maybe earlier.'
How long had there been cut-throat razors anyway, he wondered. Hundreds of years, probably.
'Bit of a romancer, that woman, you ask me,' Wynford said. 'From Off, see.'
Meaning a newcomer, Guy supposed. It was an interesting fact that he personally was never regarded as a stranger in areas where he was recognized from television. If they'd seen you on the box, you'd been in their living- rooms, so you weren't an intruder.
Except, perhaps, here in Crybbe.
'No, look,' Guy said, 'this happened in the bathroom. Oldish chap. Cut his own throat with one of those old- fashioned open razors.'
Wynford licked his cherub's lips, his eyes frosted with suspicion.
'What's wrong?' Guy asked.
'Somebody tell you to ask me about this, did they?'
'No,' Guy said. 'Of course not.'
