The noise was like what you could hear coming out of Edgar Street when Hereford United were actually winning. Maybe more like Anfield, really. Anfield underground.
‘Put the lights out,’ Bliss said.
‘You don’t wanner do this. Not on your own.’
It made sense. He stood watching his iPhone, waiting for Karen to call him back, or Darth Vaynor. Left messages for both. The bloating noise was making him physically irritated, like a rash, his palms hot but dry as dust, his head fizzing with static. A roar of what sounded like approval made the door shake and Bliss’s guts jitter.
Goldie said, ‘You go back. Leave me your number. I’ll call when they’s leaving.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Bliss smiled. ‘Just so nobody gets nicked on your premises.’
‘Least you can do.’
‘Piss off, Goldie.’
Bliss pocketed his phone, turned the key, eased the door open a crack, then slid out onto the top step where the fetid atmosphere picked him up like oven gloves.
Five steps down there was a concrete platform, a bloke on it, hunched over a substantial videocam on a tripod, pointed down into the circle of light made by big lamps, like in a dope factory.
Which it wasn’t. Nobody wanted to watch grass grow. This would be the kind of video you only found on the Internet, and maybe some gutter cable channel.
Bliss flattened himself against a wet brick wall and saw that it was an actual circle down there, inside a metal barrier, waist-high, like a giant sawn-off-drum. Maybe sixty people around the metal ring. All men, as far as Bliss could see, except he could hear a woman’s voice, high and whiny, like a bandsaw when it first touched the wood.
‘ Finish ’im, boy! Get fuckin’ stuck in, you bastard, we en’t got all night! ’
Now he saw her, taller than many of the men. Saw her black-gloss lips working.
‘ Go for the eyes, go for the eyes, that’s it! ’
Was it his birthday?
Bliss started to laugh, and then he was coughing on the smoke and the fumes of booze and sweat and nasty, twisted excitement at what was going on under the hot lights: the flapping and the stabbing, the spinning and circling, the darting head-to-head, peck-and-thrust, like some savage ballet in sandy dust and scattered twigs and roars and little jewels of flying blood. One of the cocks had the other one against the barrier, stabbing with its reddened beak. In his rattling beanbag head, Bliss heard that voice again.
That’s a bugger, we’re… gonner have to do the other one now.
The cameraman must’ve heard him coughing and turned, and Bliss raised a hand – ‘You’re all right, pal’ – and the man turned back to his camera, and it was all like slow-mo after that.
Some bloke catching the movement from the floor and looking up and nudging his mate, and he was looking up, too, but that was all right, Bliss didn’t think he’d ever nicked either of them. Smiling kindly at them, wondering how he was going to stop this and contain them. Contain her. Probably needing to get back-up, get on his phone.
It was only when more eyes were raised that it occurred to Bliss that, not only was he the only feller here in a suit and tie, he’d been doing – in this same suit and tie – a fair bit of telly these past couple of days. His was a face they all realized they knew from somewhere. So when the cameraman turned for a quick second glance, something inside Bliss snapped like old rotted elastic, and he pushed himself back against the wall, brought up his left knee and slammed the sole and heel of his shoe into the cameraman’s back.
Watched the guy go skidding down the steps, the camera flying up and then toppling into the ring where he saw both cocks going for it.
Couldn’t contain a big caffeine beam as he was pulled to the floor. He rolled away, his back finding the wall.
‘Bliss.’
‘How’s it going, Victoria?’
She came towards him through the crush.
‘On your own, is it?’
‘Do I look thick, Vickie? Wall of coppers halfway to Tesco.’
Victoria sniffed.
‘He’s on his own.’
She turned away, borrowing someone’s cigarette, and then they were on him, half the scum in the cellar, the first boot arriving like a log-splitter in his spine before they started on his face.
Victoria going, ‘Don’t arse about, boys. You don’t wanner get nicked. Just do what you gotter and clean it up.’
68
The inside of Annie Howe’s Audi was more chaotic than you might have imagined – maps and papers down the side of the passenger seat, a plastic sandwich wrapper on the floor. Merrily watched her driving quite aggressively through the diminishing evening traffic. Perhaps the only detective she’d ever seen in a trench coat, light grey, belted, the collar pulled up against the pale hair.
‘How do you know he’s going to be there?’
‘I had someone ring him, number withheld,’ Howe said, ‘and ask for Julie or somebody – wrong number. Fate’s on my side for once. I thought Mr Bull might have been at Savitch’s dinner, where he would have encountered Mr Jones, and I want to get at him first.’
Sollers Bull, brother of Mansel. Both men born to the county in the fullest sense, Merrily was thinking. Names swelling and flexing with the muscle and sinew of the land.
‘So he’s either on his own or with his girlfriend,’ Howe said.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘The official story is that his wife, Catriona, has picked up the two boys from their boarding school and they’ve all gone to stay with her parents. To keep the kids out of the glare of publicity. But she’s spent an implausible amount of time away lately. It’s either a marriage in meltdown or they’ve come to an understanding.’
Howe’s Audi had left the suburbs behind, and the night-time countryside was gathering them in. The amorphous vastness where the street lights ended. You could go in with a flashlight, but you’d better have a stack of batteries.
‘Sollers Bull,’ Howe said, ‘is not a man who likes to pass up on the fringe benefits of fame.’
‘How does he connect with Jones?’
‘For a start…’ Annie Howe played the washers over the blotched windscreen, applied the wipers. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this at all. As DCI, I’m an executive, an administrator. But tonight there aren’t many detectives unoccupied. Nobody I could trust with this, anyway.’
‘This, presumably, is to do with the murder of his brother.’
‘Oh, yes. I think we’re more or less convinced he didn’t kill his brother. He has a convincing alibi and there’s no DNA match at the crime scene. But… I’ll admit I’m punching at smoke, but there are some questions I’d like to ask him, and I’d like you to hear the answers. You did rather well, in the end, with Jones.’
‘Not from where I was sitting.’
‘You think against the grain,’ Howe said. ‘My grain, anyway.’
‘That sounds like a subtle way of saying I’m a licensed crank.’
Annie Howe didn’t deny it.
‘It may be that Jones has been in touch with Sollers Bull by now, and he knows what we’re moving towards. Or it may be that there’s no link between them at all. I don’t know. We’ll see.’
‘What does Frannie Bliss think?’
