Midwinter of the Spirit

after?’

‘Kicks… a buzz… power. Or – biggest addiction of the lot – the pursuit of knowledge. Nowt you won’t do to feed your craving. Ordinary mortals – expendable like cattle. Kindness and mercy – waste of energy. Love’s a drain, faith’s for feeble minds. Can you understand that? To know is all. Can you get a handle on that?’

‘No. That’s why I’m a Christian.’ Working towards it, anyway. Made it to the pious bitch stage.

‘Mind, a crow splattered over a country church, that still has the touch of low-grade headbangers. What are you going to do about it?’

‘Major Weston was asking for reconsecration. I said that wasn’t necessary, as a consecration’s for all time.’

‘Correct. What you proposing instead?’

‘A lesser exorcism, do you think?’

‘When?’

‘I was thinking early evening, if we could get some people together then. I wouldn’t like to think of the place getting snowed in before we could do it.’

‘You want me to come over?’

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘Give me directions,’ Huw said. ‘I’ll be there at five.’

‘I can’t keep leaning on you.’

‘I like it,’ Huw said. ‘Keeps me off the drink.’

Merrily smiled. She saw Annie Howe, in her white belted mac, walking rapidly out of King Street carrying a briefcase. ‘I… suppose you’ve heard about Dobbs.’

‘Aye.’

‘Any thoughts on that?’

‘Poor bugger?’

‘That’s it?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Huw said.

Sophie pulled up an extra chair for Howe and left them in her office. The Acting DCI kept her mac on. She hated informality.

‘My knowledge of police demarcation’s fairly negligible,’ Merrily said, ‘but aren’t you a bit senior to be investigating the minor desecration of a country church?’

‘I’m not sure I am.’ Annie Howe brought a tabloid newspaper from her case and placed it before Merrily, on Sophie’s desk. ‘You’ve seen this, I imagine.’

A copy of last night’s Evening News. The anchor story:

WYE DEATH: MAN NAMED.

‘Oh, this is the guy…’ Merrily had scarcely given it another thought. All memories of that night were still dominated by Denzil Joy. She scanned the text.

… identified as 32-year-old Paul Sayer, from Chepstow. Mr Sayer had not been reported missing for over a week because his family understood he was on holiday abroad. Acting Det. Chief Inspector Annie Howe, who is leading the investigation, said, ‘We are very anxious to talk to anyone who may have seen Mr Sayer since November 19. We believe he may have arrived in Hereford by bus or train and…

‘No need to read the lot. It’s mainly waffle. His relatives aren’t going to talk, and we ourselves have been rather economical with any information given out to the press.’

‘Aren’t you always.’

‘Need to Know, Ms Watkins,’ Howe said, ‘Need to Know. Let me tell you what we do know about Sayer.’

She brought out a folder containing photographs. Sophie, fetching in coffee for them on a tray, spotted one of them and made a choking noise.

‘Would you mind?’ Howe stood up and shut the door on both Sophie and the coffee.

‘I believe it’s known as the Goat of Mendes,’ Merrily said.

A colour photograph of what seemed to be a poster. Luridly demonic: like the cover of a dinosaur heavy- metal album from the eighties.

‘We’ll return to that,’ Howe said. ‘But this is a photograph of Paul Sayer. He may, for all we know, have been around the city for several days before he was killed.’

He had a fox-like face, the lower half almost a triangle. No smile. Hair lank, looked as if it would be greasy. Though his eyes were lifeless, he was not dead in this picture.

‘Passport photo.’ Annie Howe unbelted her raincoat. ‘Does look like him, though. Recognize him?’

Merrily shook her head. Howe looked openly around the office. Merrily wished the D on the door was removable for occasions like this. She felt self-conscious, felt like a fraud.

Howe smiled blandly, her contact-lensed eyes conveying an extremely subtle sneer. ‘You’re like a little watchdog at the gate up here, Ms Watkins.’

‘Look, if you’re not here specifically to arrest me, how about you call me Merrily?’

‘Actually, the people I call by their first names tend to be the ones I’ve already arrested. Standard interview-room technique.’

‘But the suspects don’t get to call you Annie.’

You might wonder if anyone did, under the rank of superintendent, she had such glacial dignity. She was only thirty-two, Merrily estimated, the same age as the man pulled out of the Wye – Paul Sayer whose photo lay on the desk.

‘I expect you’ll get round to explaining what this poor guy has to do with the Goat and me.’

‘ “This poor guy”?’ said Annie Howe. ‘Why do I suspect your sympathy may be short-lived?’

‘He had, er, form?’

‘None at all. He was, according to his surviving family, a quiet, decent, clean-living man who worked as a bank clerk in Chepstow and lived in a terraced house on the edge of the town, which was immaculately maintained. He was unmarried, but once engaged for three years to a young woman from Stroud who’s since emigrated to Australia. I’ll be talking to her tonight, but one can guess why the relationship foundered.’

Merrily took out a cigarette. ‘Do you mind?’

‘It’s your office.’

‘I’ll open the window. Why did the engagement fall through?’

‘Don’t bother with the window, Ms Watkins. I’m paid to take risks. Well I suppose she must have seen his cellar.’

Cellar?

‘Oh, my God, not a Fred West situation?’

‘Let’s not get too carried away. This is it.’

Six more photographs, all eight by ten. All in colour, although there wasn’t much colour in that cellar.

‘Christ,’ Merrily said.

‘So now you understand why I’m here.’ Howe turned one of the pictures around, a wide-angle taken from the top of the cellar steps. ‘Is this your standard satanic temple, then, would you say?’

‘I’ve never actually been in one, but it looks… well, it looks like something inspired by old Dracula films and Dennis Wheatley novels, to be honest.’

‘The altar,’ Howe said, ‘appears to have been put together from components acquired at garden centres in the vicinity – reconstituted stone. The wall poster’s of American origin, probably obtained by mail-order – we found some glossy magazines full of this stuff.’

‘Sad.’

‘Yes, I admit I have a problem understanding the millions of people who seem to worship your own God, but this… How real are these people? How genuine?’

‘I don’t know… I’d be inclined to think the guy who built this temple is – I may be wrong – what my daughter would call a sad tosser.’