‘His marriage ended.’
‘No kids?’
‘No children from either of his marriages.’
‘Housekeeper… cleaner?’
‘A local woman comes in most days. I’ve given your sergeant her details.’
Bliss said, ‘We do need to know if he had enemies.’
‘He was well liked and well respected by everyone who knew him. A traditional farmer. An old-fashioned farmer. A man of the land – this land. Bred to it.’ Sollers looked down at the tabletop as if the contours of the land were marked out on its surface. ‘We both were.’
‘Bridge Sollers,’ Bliss said.
At least he knew his place names.
‘And Mansel Lacey,’ Sollers said.
Both villages – hamlets – within a few miles of here.
‘Something to live up to, Mr Bull.’
‘That sarcasm?’
‘No,’ Bliss said, surprised. ‘No, it wasn’t.’
Sollers Bull lowered his head to his hands, massaging the edge of his eyes with the knuckles of his thumbs.
‘Let’s talk again tomorrow, shall we?’ Bliss said.
He drove up to the fork, parked with his engine running, headlights on dipped, and got out his mobile. Signal was a bit wonky.
‘Mansel Bull,’ he said. ‘Farmer. Machete job, Billy Grace reckons.’
‘I know,’ the DCI said. ‘I’ve just talked at length to Stagg.’
Addressing his superior, Bliss felt acutely strange. Up to a few months ago, he was routinely editing his thoughts before opening his mouth.
‘Sollers Bull,’ Annie Howe said. ‘That would be…?’
‘Gobby hunt supporter nicked by the Met for pouring red paint on John Prescott’s second-best Jag.’
‘Fighting for his heritage. A hero.’
‘Malicious damage is malicious damage, Annie. And still a cocky twat. Who, as you can imagine, doesn’t like the police much. Especially me.’
‘Stagg said.’
They’d been in the remains of Bliss’s sitting room when the first call came through. Kirsty’s old man had been in with Kirsty’s key while Bliss was at work and had nicked the flame-effect fire. Bliss had been filling a paraffin stove when Terry Stagg had come through on Annie’s mobile.
Be more convenient for DI Bliss.
True enough, in that Bliss was nearer the door. Whenever Annie came round she’d arrive just after dusk, leaving her car in a cul-de-sac two streets away. Strategic. Kirsty was right. If it came out, one of them could end up behind a desk in Carlisle.
No guesses which.
‘We need to watch Stagg,’ Bliss said. ‘Ma’am.’
Hadn’t yet said a word to her about Kirsty’s suspicions. Best to keep quiet until he knew for sure that the bitch wasn’t flying a kite.
‘What else did Sollers Bull say, Francis?’
‘Reckons it was a robbery gone wrong. All but accusing migrant workers from the fruit farm across the road.’
Figuring this might rattle Annie’s PC cage a little.
‘That would be Magnis Berries?’
‘That what it’s called?’
‘Named after what was a Roman town,’ Annie said, ‘which used to stand somewhere round there. How close is it to Oldcastle?’
‘Half a mile? I doubt there are many people employed there now. Probably not even got the polytunnels up yet. You think we should go in, see what vehicles they’ve got?’
‘Check it out discreetly tomorrow. Maybe find out if anyone’s in charge. During the season, it could be the biggest centre of population between there and Leominster.’
‘Yeh, OK.’ Bliss sat watching the bare brown hedge, like a complex circuit board in his headlights. ‘What time will you get back tomorrow?’
She was in court at Worcester: three brothers accused over the near-fatal stabbing of a father-in-law.
‘Verdict early next week. I might look in on you tomorrow, but no point in me getting involved if I’m back in court on Monday. You pleased?’
‘Made-up, Annie. Where are you now?’
‘Home. Thought it was best.’
‘What about tomorrow night?’ he said.
‘I’m not sure.’
See, that was what he was scared of, too. The idea that something which neither of them had expected to last… really wouldn’t last.
‘Didn’t catch that, Annie,’ Bliss said. ‘I keep losing the signal.’
9
Syd S Picer had the fire going nicely in the parlour.
‘This looks like sycamore,’ he said to Huw. ‘Good burner, easy ignition. And a bit of oak to keep it going all night. Well-dry, too.’
‘Stored for three years, the oak,’ Huw said with disinterest.
Merrily was observing Syd. Hyper. Striding around Huw’s Victorian parlour then diving at the fireplace and rearranging a log to funnel the flames. The pensive figure in the darkest part of the chapel – that had been the Syd Spicer she knew: this was not. Same voice, though, flat as old lino.
She looked at Huw in his leaking armchair, his face mapped by shadows. The parlour was still in winter mode, with two baskets of logs and a heavy curtain drawn across the main door. Whitewashed walls ochred with smoke.
‘Tell you what…’ Syd was back on his feet. ‘I’m just thinking, if you’ve got a chainsaw, Huw, we could get Merrily out.’
She sat down on the sofa. If he wanted her out, she no longer wanted to go. Sunk into the ruins of his armchair, Huw shook his head.
‘Take you bloody hours on your own, lad, in the dark. Dangerous, even on your terms.’ He started easing off his walking boots. ‘Make your calls, Merrily. Ring Jane. You’ll only be on edge. Go in t’kitchen. Rayburn’s on.’
‘I’ve no big secrets.’ Merrily looked at Syd, then back at Huw. ‘But if you two want to talk… Can I make you some tea?’
‘Aye, that’d be nice. Two sugars for me.’
She’d never been in Huw’s kitchen before, and it was a small surprise: clean, and not as basic as you’d imagine. New pine cupboards and a larder fridge. Odd domestic touches – spice rack, even. Feminine touches. Maybe his cleaner? There was no woman in Huw’s home, as far as she knew. Not since the death of Julia, the love of his later life.
The Rayburn was doing warm, throaty noises. She filled the kettle, found the pack of Yorkshire tea bags then called the vicarage on her mobile. Answering machine. Called Jane’s mobile: answering service. Called Lol at his cottage in Church Street: no answer, no machine.
