ferry to Ireland.
Louis had been shot in the back of the head, evidently while relieving himself, his dad presumably having offered to hold the gun for him. Preston had been found some distance away. He’d fumbled it, blown a piece of his head away but was not dead. He’d died, like Lincoln Cookman, in the ambulance.
It was numbing.
‘I can’t question it,’ Syd Spicer said. ‘You know what the suicide rate is among ex-SAS? You come out into a shrunken world and it’s like your coffin’s being assembled around you. Every day another little screw going in. The sudden smallness of everything, the petty regulations, the way your hands are tied by the kind of people you just want to smack.’
He talked about that feeling of confinement. How you had to find a way out of that. Preston Devereaux’s answer was to slide out of the system by shedding his humanity like excess weight.
Merrily lit a cigarette.
‘Ironically, dumping your humanity now seems like the best way to survive in farming. A cow’s no longer Daisy, it’s a product with a government bar code.’
‘The State penetrating your life at every level,’ Syd said. ‘Nobody’s more aware of that than the farmer, whose only rulers used to be the elements. State doesn’t like the idea of guys out there being independent. Officials come swarming over your land like maggots, and you’re clawing away to get them off before they start eating into your brain. Maybe Preston felt he was finally reclaiming his Norman heritage as a robber baron. The Normans controlled the hunting in the Malverns. The Devereaux dynasty controls the drugs.’
‘But knowing that at any time it could all go to pieces? That he could lose everything his family had built up over the centuries? Did that add to the necessary sense of danger?’
‘Maybe,’ Lol said, ‘he thought he’d already lost everything. That it was just useless packaging. And the only part of it worth preserving was the… whatever was still alight inside him.’
Merrily thought about this. About Devereaux telling her how he’d put all his valuable furniture into the holiday units. Stripping his own life back. She saw him in the Beacon Room in his anonymous, muted green overalls, surrounded by mementoes of the past – the fox heads and the picture of him with Eric Clapton. She looked at Syd.
‘You knew that if you could get them to walk away…?’
Syd had changed into his cassock, as if in some vain attempt to convince himself that what had happened in the last several hours had happened to someone else.
‘Didn’t see him having any taste for life as a fugitive. Still less as a prisoner who – even if he hadn’t actually personally killed anybody-’
‘He had killed, though, hadn’t he?’ Merrily said. ‘What about Lincoln Cookman and his girlfriend?’
‘I meant murder.’
‘Yes, well…’ Merrily bent her head into her hands. ‘This is probably nonsense, but when I went to talk to Raji Khan at the Royal Oak, Roman Wicklow’s family were there, collecting his stuff. Including his small sports car. Quite a deep colour of orange, which might look red at night, I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had, and I don’t get them often.’
Syd sat back. ‘A Mazda?’
‘I think it was a Nissan, but about the same size and shape, and late at night, coming towards Preston Devereaux at speed, with a black guy inside… He told me he was very tired at the time. He said if he hadn’t been so tired it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘An impulse thing?’
‘If Wicklow was preying on his mind…’
‘You said Wicklow killed that man in Pershore?’
‘He was tortured before he was shot,’ Merrily said. ‘Maybe he gave Wicklow information leading Wicklow back to Devereaux.’
‘Then Wicklow turns up at Old Wychehill to ask for a job. Blackmail in a thin disguise. What if Wicklow tells Khan? Assuming Khan doesn’t already know.’
Suspecting that Khan had a charmed-life arrangement with Annie Howe, Merrily didn’t think he did know.
‘I could be totally wrong about the Wychehill crash, anyway. How could he know they’d both be killed?’
‘He couldn’t,’ Syd said. ‘But he was a massively angry man in a business that brutalizes. I remember he was in a very… excited state that night. In fact, I don’t rule out that Preston, like Louis, partook of the produce. In his careful way.’
‘It could even be that Cookman had been involved with Wicklow. The police did find a bag of crack under his spare wheel.’
‘Anything’s possible and most of it won’t come out. The cops have too many angles to follow up. Could take weeks with several forces involved. Could be dozens of people charged. But it’s not our problem. Is it?’
‘Meanwhile,’ Lol said, ‘do we ring A and E at Worcester Hospital?’
‘They’ll ring us,’ Merrily said. ‘Tim has no known relations in the country. Not that anybody knows of.’
She pushed her cup away. One of the parameds had mentioned the possibility of damage to the pulmonary artery. The kitchen seemed dim. The garden, where it was lifted towards the bald hill, was pallid with tired moonlight and what remained of the so-called noctilucence.
‘I may’ve screwed up badly.’ Syd plucked at his cassock. ‘Probably gonna get out of this now.’
‘The cassock?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Quitting’s not in your nature, Syd. Or your training.’
He smiled faintly.
‘Increasingly, I admire you, Merrily. You’ve watched it fall to pieces from your point of view. Every deliverance angle going, one after another, down the toilet.’
‘That’s what you think?’ Merrily sank her head into her arms, looking up at him from table-top level. ‘You really don’t see anything bordering on the paranormal?’
‘You mean you do?’
‘Syd,’ she said. ‘When I’ve slept, I’ll make you a list.’
‘You think there should still be some form of requiem?’
‘I don’t know. You think that would make everything all right in Wychehill? Sweetness and light and harmony and Mr Holliday inviting Mr Khan to afternoon tea?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I suppose I think truth sometimes heals on its own. Winnie said there was a festering wound in the hills. Maybe she added to the infection. Maybe she – let’s be fanciful – annoyed Elgar, bringing him to judgement when all he wanted was to pedal up and down, whistling his sad little up-and-down cello tune.’
‘Bringing him to judgement?’
‘What right did she have? It was essentially a magical ritual, you know, what they were-’ She stood up. ‘What they’re still doing, presumably, in your church.’
Merrily had never been a hymn kind of person, but she knew them. Most of the words, if not the tune in this case.
‘ Oh wisest love that flesh and blood
Which did in Adam fail…’
‘ Praise to the Holiest in the Height. That’s…?’
‘What the heavenly choir sings before the appearance of the Angel of the Agony,’ Lol said. ‘Tim’s expanded it, I think. Dan said it goes into a speaking-in-tongues kind of chant. He said that’s when you start to get high.’
They were in the parking bay outside Wychehill Church. The singing was much louder now than when Merrily had last heard it, standing on an upturned bucket below a window. As if the choristers had been pacing themselves like athletes.
‘You think we should stop them?’ Syd Spicer stood under the cracked lantern, his eyes uncertain. ‘How long’s it got to go?’
‘What time is it now, Syd?’
‘Two-twenty.’
