know what the subject of your discussion’s going to be, but if it’s what I think it is… well, you know my views. I’ll say goodnight to you.’
He walked away, Merrily whispering to Lol, ‘Did you get my-?’
‘Just.’
‘Does Loste know about Winnie?’
‘No.’
‘What’s he doing here on his own?’
‘Long story. Basically, he’s come to expose himself to the blinding light of God. Like Gerontius. Take me away.’
‘ What? ’
‘Yeah, ’night, Preston,’ Syd called out. ‘Careful of the Gullet.’
Preston Devereaux walked no more than forty paces before he stopped and shrugged and turned back.
Four of them sitting on the ridged and knobbly earth at the edge of the sacrificial pit, like some surreal midnight picnic party. Tim Loste hadn’t moved from the oak. Syd Spicer was hunched between Devereaux and Merrily, his legs overhanging the hollow as if he was conducting a confirmation class at the front of his church.
Careful of the Gullet.
He’d wanted this confrontation. Some payback for all those weeks without his family. Or something. Merrily was furious and anxious. If this was an example of the benefits of training, the bastard hadn’t left the Regiment a day too soon.
‘I suppose we’re people who know each other, mostly,’ Syd said. ‘And what we are.’
Preston Devereaux had his cap tilted over his eyes. Reluctant returned exile, begetter of murderers.
‘You, for instance, are such a clever man, Preston. With such stupid sons.’
Devereaux didn’t look at him.
‘Should’ve stopped when you were ahead. All you needed was to sit tight and do nothing.’
Devereaux slipped him a look.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Syd said. ‘That’s exactly what you were doing. Nothing been shifted through Old Wychehill for quite a while, or Mal would’ve known. You should’ve ignored Wicklow, too. Somebody else would’ve had him sooner or later. Maybe you were ignoring him. But not Louis… Louis’s a real hard man. Louis has to act.’
Merrily sat with goose bumps forming on her folded arms, unsure of the sense of this. Fears over Lol had blocked all meaningful consideration of what might be happening, the phrase outrage crime covering all.
‘Family. You always reckoned it was a curse.’ Syd turned to Merrily. ‘The boy Louis likes to show off. Show how inventive he is. For a long time, I was thinking, I wonder if Preston knows. Do I have a word? But sometimes God saves us from ourselves. You noticed that?’
Preston Devereaux said, irritably, ‘All the conversations we’ve had, Syd, you never brought God into it, not once. This is not a good time to start.’
‘Fair enough. To answer your earlier question, Merrily, Winnie gave Mal two hundred and fifty quid, up front, to find out if Preston was seeing another woman – Winnie, against everything she stood for, being crazy about Preston. On a whim, I bunged Mal a quiet grand to extend the inquiry.’
‘Into-?’
‘Not that he wouldn’t’ve done it anyway, purely out of interest. Maybe a bit bored with the work he was getting. This was the real thing again. We sat up late one night at the rectory and planned it like an operation – the Hereford boys ride again. Winnie was Mal’s cover story, if they rumbled him. He liked that. We both liked it, I’m afraid.’
‘Am I supposed to know who you’re talking about?’ Devereaux sounding bored.
‘Oh, I’m very upset about Mal, Preston, and – God help me – very angry. My guess is it was someone came in from Wales rather than Louis, but that changes nothing. It still all comes back to Old Wychehill.’
Merrily coughed. ‘I’m not…’ Badly wanting a cigarette. ‘Not really getting this.’
‘Diversification, Merrily. Preston decided to follow the government’s advice to the letter. Government helps destroy the basis of traditional agriculture, farmers complain, government says, Use your heads, be adventurous… diversify. Preston Devereaux, a deeply embittered man, full of hatred – some of it justified, fair play – says, Thank you for the advice, I’ll do just that.’
‘Putting words into my mouth, Syd.’
Merrily realizing, even as Devereaux spoke, that there was no need to.
And we turned it around, by God we did, in spite of the shiny-arsed civil servants and the scum from Brussels.
She gazed into the pit. Dear God.
61
Trying to be a Priest
‘Mal tailed Preston day after day,’ Syd Spicer said. ‘Into Worcester, Gloucester and Cheltenham, parts of Birmingham. Finally, down towards Tregaron, near where the old acid factory was, back in the 1970s. The only deals Preston cuts in Wychehill at the moment are with people who come to stay in his holiday apartments, but I’m guessing that in the early days it was buzzing.’
Preston Devereaux slid his hand into a pocket of his overall. Syd moved closer to him. Devereaux brought out a packet of cigarettes, held it up. Syd nodded.
‘But Preston’s still got to be directing the business, else why would he be making the visits? Sometimes, he goes alone to Worcester or Cheltenham, sometimes it’s him and Louis. Mal had to lie a bit to Winnie, because occasionally they’d drop into clubs and massage parlours as well – sampling the pleasures of the cities they were poisoning. But mostly it was private houses, or the offices of an independent cattle-feed dealer, or a couple of family-owned abattoirs. The service industries.’
‘Victims of Blair’s slow demolition of England’s oldest industry,’ Devereaux said.
Merrily shifted on the baked earth, still resisting the urge to smoke.
‘How long since Mal France told you all this, Syd?’
‘Over a period. Up to last night, on his way back from the West Wales coast. Had to leave in a hurry to lose someone on a motorbike. Seems to be a string across the border counties and down through Mid-Wales. Couple of coastal landowners. Some of it, mainly smack, comes in that way, all courtesy of selected tight-lipped farmers. And no profession has tighter lips than farming. Inbred silence, inbred resentment. Watertight. Supplemented, in this case, by people who lost jobs after the hunting ban. A feudal thing, really. Old feudal instincts. Almost – God forbid – a crusade.’
Devereaux lit a cigarette. Syd moved away from the smoke.
‘Not quite sure how long it’s been going on, maybe two years, maybe four. It only starts to make serious sense when you look back to Preston’s formative years. His university years.’
‘Oxford?’ Merrily said. ‘Balliol?’
‘In the 1960s. Wasn’t that guy, the Welsh guy, Mr Nice…?’
‘Howard Marks?’
‘That’s him. World-class dope dealer. Living legend in his field. And, as it happens, a student at Balliol College in the 1960s. You knew him, Preston?’
‘Before my time.’
‘Not that much before, by my reckoning. Maybe you just had some of the same contacts – I’m guessing here, you understand, I’m just a simple cleric. But where Mr Marks stuck with dope – marijuana-based goods…’
‘Evangelical, with him,’ Merrily remembered.
‘Yeah, a real calling. So he’s always maintained. The fact that he also made a few fortunes before he was nicked and banged up in the States… Preston, it’s different. Different background altogether. And different attitude. Fuelled by this self-righteous, blind resentment. Powerful. It’s in his Norman blood. Blood of the Vikings.’
Devereaux smiled. Merrily saw Lol stand up and wander over to the oak tree.
