Frannie – how was he doing? Merrily had invited him round for a meal a couple of times since his marriage had finally collapsed. Both times he’d said he was busy.
The phone rang and Sophie turned the radio off.
‘Gatehouse.’ A pause. ‘The Cathedral Gatehouse. In Hereford. Who is this?’ Sophie listened. An eyebrow rose fractionally.
‘Ah… one moment.’
She put the call on hold.
Merrily said, ‘Me?’
‘Picked you up on 1471. From Credenhill.’
‘Syd?’
‘His wife,’ Sophie said. ‘Mrs Spicer, I’m putting you through to Mrs Watkins.’
What did she know about Fiona Spicer? Very little. Except that SAS wives who survived the course were rarely insubstantial women.
‘I think we almost met once in the Malverns. My name’s-’
‘Yes, I realize who you are now.’
Voice low and steady and not exactly friendly. Neutral southern-English accent. Merrily pulled the Silk Cut packet from her bag, stood it on the desk in front of her. Sophie frowned.
‘I ran into Syd a few days ago. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were… back with him.’
Christ, what did this sound like? Merrily stared at the packet, extracting a spiritual cigarette.
‘I’m not back with him, Mrs Watkins. This is a visit.’
‘Is, erm… is Syd there?’
‘No.’
Merrily waited. After a couple of seconds, the silence suggested that Mrs Spicer had gone.
No – a mobile. She’d picked up the number from the house phone, but she was calling back on a mobile. Merrily looked at Sophie, back behind her desk, making no pretence of doing anything but listening.
‘Mrs Spicer, it’s the first time I’ve used the Credenhill number. I got it from Huw Owen, my spiritual director. Syd consulted him and – indirectly – me, about something, and I just wanted to follow up on it.’
‘Did you?’
Something wrong here. Merrily lit the spiritual cigarette. Sometimes it worked.
‘Do you, erm, know where he is, Mrs Spicer?’
‘He can’t be far away. His car’s here.’
‘You are at the house?’
‘I’m at the house, yes. The army house. He’ll be across the road. Attending to his flock. Fortunately, he’s not very SAS when it comes to hiding spare keys, so I was able to go in and take a look around.’
‘First time you’ve been?’
‘To this house, yes. I’m in the garage now.’
‘Syd said you’d be moving in soon.’
No response.
‘Mrs Spicer-’
‘My husband worked with you once before,’ Mrs Spicer said. ‘Your name and number are written inside a book entitled Deliverance. A book much thumbed. Pages folded over.’
‘That would make sense.’
‘But you haven’t spoken to him today.’
‘No.’
A silence, then…
‘Mrs Watkins, something’s disturbing me. Would it be possible for us to meet?’
‘Of course. Should I come over?’
‘Perhaps I should come to you. I’m staying in Hereford, at a B and B. You’re at the Cathedral, are you?’
‘In the gatehouse. Above the entrance to the Bishop’s Palace.’
‘I’d rather come to the Cathedral itself. Where’s quiet?’
‘Do you know the Lady Chapel?’
‘I can be there in about half an hour.’
The dead line was for real this time. Sophie was sitting on the edge of the desk, pale and watchful as a barn owl on a branch. Merrily handed her the phone to hang up.
21
When Dc David Vaynor came in, all seven feet of him if you included the big hair, Bliss was waiting for the pictures of the dead to come up on his laptop. Cleaned-up pictures of the cleaned-up dead, done before the PM, before the craniums came off. Pictures you could show to people with no loss of breakfast.
‘We might’ve got them, boss,’ DC Vaynor said.
‘Shut the door, son.’
Bliss closed his lappie, Vaynor ducking into the office. Despite being a Cambridge honours graduate, or some such, and wearing a tweedy sports jacket, he wasn’t a bad lad. Locally born, working class, good contacts – where they counted. Maybe these sloppy old sports jackets were all he could get to fit him.
‘Right, then. Go on.’
‘Goldie Andrews, boss? On the Plascarreg?’
‘Couldn’t be that easy, Darth. Could it?’
‘Goldie’s been scuttling around the estate asking if anyone’s seen her lodgers.’
‘Female lodgers.’
‘Sisters.’
‘Where’d this come from?’
‘The new launderette at the front of the Plas? My cousin’s wife, it is, runs that.’
‘Good boy. Names?’
‘Marinescu. Maria and Ileana.’
‘Jesus, that sounds right, the escu bit.’ Bliss began tapping lightly on the lid of his lappie. ‘How long they been missing?’
‘Just the one night. Not normally a cause for upset, except they don’t do things like that. Also… it’s rent day and apparently they owe Goldie for two weeks. I just rang her up to confirm, took it straight to Sergeant Wilton, and he said to come in and tell you right away.’
‘Goldie’s lodgers… yes…’ Bliss came to his feet. ‘The bottom line here being that it’s not exactly unusual for Goldie’s lodgers to be on the game, is it?’
‘Unusual for them not to be on the game.’
‘She know they might be dead?’
‘She will by now, it’s all over the radio, TV, Internet…’
‘Right, then.’ Bliss pulled his jacket from the chair. ‘Let’s go and have a chat. They can send the piccies to me phone.’ He beamed. ‘Nice one, Darth. Write yourself out a commen- dation.’
‘Cheers, boss. Do you, um… want me to…?’
‘Yeh, yeh, come along. But I might just go in on me own at first, to chat to Goldie.’ Walking out, almost bumping into Karen Dowell. ‘Thing is, that woman owes me… quite a bit. Karen.’
‘Boss, we have a reliable sighting in the Grapes in Church Street, from half-nine, and then the Monk’s Head, ten-nish.’
‘Lovely. Get Elly to put out an appeal for anybody who saw them in either. Karen, me and Darth’s off to Goldie’s on the Plas. If you could tell Brian Wilton, it looks like we’ll need forensics. And when the pictures come in from the morgue, could you get them sent to me phone?’
