‘Acting DCI, actually.’
‘The old fast track’s moved up a gear, has it?’ Weariness loosening Merrily’s reserve. ‘Let me guess, I’ve walked into some kind of stake-out. Colombian drugs barons are bringing a consignment up the Wye?’
Annie Howe didn’t laugh. It occurred to Merrily that she had yet ever to hear Annie Howe laugh. Her short, ashen hair gleamed dully like a helmet in the early light.
‘You priests work long hours. Sick parishioner?’
‘Dead,’ Merrily said. ‘Just now.’
‘Obviously a night for it, Ms Watkins.’
‘For what?’
Annie Howe came to stand next to her, glancing into the Volvo. She was maybe five years younger than Merrily – a smooth, efficient, over-educated CID person, both feet on the escalator. During the police hunt in Ledwardine earlier this year, Jane had remarked that Howe reminded her of a Nazi dentist. You could tell where the kid was coming from.
‘We’ve pulled a body out of the Wye, Ms Watkins. Just down there, not far from Victoria Bridge.’
‘Oh God. Just?’
‘Couple of hours ago.’
She remembered hearing the siren from the sluice-room window. ‘What happened?’
‘We’re not sure yet. But it didn’t appear to have been in the water an awfully long time, so we’re rather keen to talk to anyone who might have seen something’ – Howe smiled thinly – ‘or heard a solitary splash, perhaps.’
‘Not me.’
‘You arrived about three, I hear that right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Nobody about at all?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘You ever been down to the river this way?’
‘Not really.’
‘It’s quite pretty,’ Howe said. ‘Come and see.’
Merrily sighed and followed her past some flowerless beds and a bench to a little parapet. Below them was a narrow suspension bridge, grey girders across the dark, misty river. A glimmering of pale plastic tape, and two policemen.
Howe said, ‘It’s just that if there’s a particular parking place most convenient for the river, then your car’s in it. We thought it might be the dead man’s at first. Quite a disappointment really, when your name came up as the owner.’
‘And when the body wasn’t a woman about my age in a dog-collar.’
‘Not quite what I meant. It just made it less easy to put a name to him. But we will.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Quite young. Thirties.’
‘Suicide?’
‘It’s a possibility, given the time of day. So’s accidental death.’ Annie Howe looked at Merrily. ‘So’s murder.’
‘He didn’t drown?’
‘We should know quite soon.’
‘But he came off the bridge?’
Howe shrugged.
‘If you knew it was my car, why didn’t you come into the hospital and ask for me?’
‘We did. Nobody seemed to know you were there.’
‘The Alfred Watkins Ward, if you want to check. Ask for Sister Cullen. I’ve been with her for the last three hours or so.’
Howe nodded. ‘So it’s unlikely you would’ve seen anything. Ah, well, nothing’s ever simple, is it, Ms Watkins? Thanks for your help. I don’t suppose we’ll be in touch, but if you remember anything that might be useful…’ the wind whipped the skirt of Howe’s raincoat against her calves, ‘you know where to find me.’
Merrily looked down into the swirling mist and dark water. It looked somehow warmer than she felt – and almost inviting.
13
Show Barn
IT WAS RARE to see genial Dick Lyden in a bad mood.
When Lol arrived just after eight a.m., Dick was pacing the kitchen, slamming his right fist into his left palm.
‘The little shit,’ he fumed. ‘The fucking little shit!’
‘He’s just trying it on,’ Mrs Ruth Lyden, fellow therapist, said calmly. ‘He knows you too well. He’s got you psyched out. He knows your particular weak spot and he goes for it.’
There was plenty of room for Dick to pace; the Lydens’ kitchen was as big as a restaurant kitchen, more than half as big as Lol’s new flat over the shop. It was all white and metallic like a dairy.
‘His psychological know-how goes out of the window when he’s dealing with his own son,’ Ruth told Lol. She was a large, placid, frizzy-haired woman who’d once been Dick’s personal secretary in London.
‘Well, you can’t, can you?’ Dick sat down at the banquetsized table. ‘You simply can’t distance yourself sufficiently from your own family – be wrong even to try. I think we’re probably even worse than ordinary people at dealing with our own problems.’
Lol didn’t like to ask what the present personal problem was; Ruth told him anyway.
‘James has been chosen as Boy Bishop.’ She searched Lol’s face, eyebrows raised. ‘You know about that?’
‘Sorry,’ Lol said. ‘I’m not that well up on the Church.’
‘Medieval Christmas tradition. Used to happen all over the place, but it’s almost unique to Hereford now. A boy is chosen from the Cathedral choristers, or the retired choristers, to replace the Bishop on his throne on St Nicholas’s Day. Gets to wear the mitre and wield the staff and whatnot. Terribly solemn and everything, though quite fun as well.’
‘It’s actually a great honour,’ Dick said. ‘Especially for newcomers like us. Little shit!’
‘And of course James now says he’s going to refuse to do it.’ Ruth poured coffee for Lol. ‘When they offered it to him, he was very flattered in a cynical sort of way. But now he’s announced it would be morally wrong of him to do it – having decided he’s an atheist—’
‘What the fuck difference does that make?’ Dick snarled. ‘At least twenty-five per cent of the bloody clergy are atheists!’
‘—and that it isn’t in line with his personal image or his musical direction. He’s sixteen now, and at sixteen one’s image is awfully well defined. How quickly they change! One year an angelic little choirboy, and then—’
‘A bloody yob,’ said Dick. ‘Where’s his guitar? I’m going to lock it in the shed.’
‘He’s taken it to school with him.’ Ruth hid a smile behind her coffee cup. ‘Told you he had you psyched.’
‘Devious little bastard.’ Dick drained his cup, coughed at the strength of the coffee. ‘Right, I’ll get my coat, Lol. Be good to go out and deal with something straightforward.’
‘Moon is straightforward?’
‘Well, you know what I mean. Straightforwardly convoluted.’
‘Poor Dick,’ Ruth said when he’d left the kitchen. ‘It’s an honour for
Lol said, ‘Do you guys psychoanalyse one another
