Midwinter of the Spirit

ANNIE HOWE STOOD on the step, young and spruce and clean, fast-track fresh against the swirling murk.

‘Ah, you are there, Ms Watkins. I was driving over from Leominster, so I thought I’d call.’ Her ash-blonde head tilted, taking in the dressing-gown – and the blotches and the bags, no doubt. ‘You really aren’t well, are you?’

‘Not wonderful.’

‘Flu?’

‘No, it’s OK to come in,’ Merrily said. ‘You won’t catch anything.’

‘I seldom do. Is this nervous exhaustion, perhaps?’

‘That might be closer.’

Howe stepped into the kitchen, with a slight wrinkling of the nose. Her own kitchen would be hardwood and stainless-steel, cool as a morgue. She sat down at the table, confidently pushing the ashtray away.

‘Ms Watkins, it’s the Paul Sayer thing again.’

Merrily filled the kettle. ‘That seemed to have gone quiet?’

‘That’s because we’re still choosing not to make too much noise about it. I’m wondering if we ought to.’

‘You want me to discuss it in a sermon?’

Howe smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps a sarcasm amnesty?’

‘Sure. Sorry, go on.’

So what did she do about this? If Howe knew she was in the process of shedding the Deliverance role, this conversation would never reach the coffee stage. Difficult, since she was unable to square it with the Bishop until his return from London. OK, say nothing.

‘You heard from DS Bliss, I believe,’ Howe said.

‘He told me about the supplier of crows. Did you get any further?’

‘Unfortunately not. They appeared to have paid their money, taken their crow, and melted back into their own netherworld. But, as you agreed with Bliss, the fee suggests that the people involved in this are not the usual… how shall I say—?’

‘Toerags.’

‘Quite.’

‘So, let me get this right – have you actually said publicly that Sayer was murdered yet?’

Howe shook her head. ‘We’re staying with the phrase “suspicious circumstances”. The situation is, as you must realize, that we could doubtless get widespread national publicity if we told the press about Sayer’s hobby.’

‘Especially if you gave them the pictures.’

‘Of course. But apart from producing an unseemly double-page spread in the Daily Star, I can’t see that it would help. I’m no longer sure the people we want to talk to would ever read a tabloid. Yes, it’s possible, Sayer may simply be a wanker. We’ve found some videotapes under a floorboard which seem to show ritual activities, but we don’t know if these are events that Sayer was personally involved in or sado-pornographic tapes he acquired for his own gratification. They’re quite explicit.’

‘Not commercial films?’

‘Oh, no, the quality’s not good enough. Lots of camera shake and the picture itself is so poor it seems to have been recorded with either old or very cheap equipment – which suggests it’s not simulated.’

‘What kind of ritual activities?’

‘You can view them if you like.’

‘I’d rather you just told me.’

‘Well, one shows a man penetrating a woman on an altar. She’s wearing a blindfold and a gag, and it looks like rape. The man’s face is not hidden, but well covered by long hair and a beard. In the background are several people whose faces are even less distinguishable. What does that sound like to you?’

‘Any suggestion of location?’

‘Possibly a church. And then there’s the inevitable passinground-the-chalice sequence.’

‘Black Mass?’

‘Someone drinks from the chalice, and there’s residue on the mouth suggestive of blood. But, as I say, the quality is appalling.’

‘You see, on the one hand,’ Merrily said, ‘the Black Mass is the best-known of all satanic rituals, and probably the easiest to carry out if you’re just idiots with a warped idea of fun. You just do everything in reverse – say the Lord’s Prayer backwards, et cetera. And you pervert everything – urinate in the chalice or… use blood instead of wine. Blood is the aspect which could, on the other hand, mean serious business. Blood represents the lifeforce, and it’s seen as the most potent of all magical substances. If you want to make something happen, you use real blood.’

‘Of course, we have no way of knowing whether this is. It looks too thin for ketchup, but it could be soy sauce or something.’

‘I’m not being much help. Am I?’

‘It’s more a question of what help you might be in the future,’ Howe said. ‘We’ve failed to identify a single person who’s been involved in any… any activity with Sayer. Or, indeed, with serious satanic activity of any kind. That’s not including the self-publicists, of course.’

‘When did you ever see a serious, heavy-duty, educated Satanist stripped off in the News of the World?’

‘You mean – as with organized crime – the big operators are the outwardly respectable types you’d never suspect?’

‘I suppose that’s a good parallel.’

‘It’s also largely a myth,’ said Howe. ‘The Mr Bigs of this world are very rare, and we do know who they are. But I’m still interested. Do you personally believe there are high- powered practitioners with big houses and executive posts?’

‘How would I know? I’m only a village vicar. But if Sayer was just a wanker, perhaps he was playing out of his league.’

‘You mean, if he was regarded by some serious and outwardly respectable practitioner as a potential embarrassment…’

‘Or he was getting too ambitious. Or he angered some rival… group. I’m told there’s a lot of jealousy and infighting and power-struggling among certain occult sects.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘It was discussed during a course I was sent on. Is this what you wanted to hear?’

‘Go on.’

‘We were told that there are basically two classes of Satanist – what Huw, our tutor, calls the headbangers who are just in it for the experience or whatever psychic charge they can get; and the intellectuals. These are people who came out of Gnosticism and believe that knowledge is all, and so anything is valid if it leads to more knowledge.’

‘Including murder?’

‘Probably. Although they’d be as reluctant as the rest of us to break the law. Satanists, basically, are the people who hate Christianity. And they hate us because they see us as irrational. They despise us for our pomp and our smugness. All these great cathedrals costing millions of pounds a year to maintain, all the wasted psychic energy… to promote what they see as the idiot myth that you can get there by love.’

‘I see.’

‘Why do I get the feeling you also think it’s an idiot myth?’

‘Because I’m a police-person,’ Howe said. ‘Love is something we seldom encounter.’

When Howe had left, Merrily phoned Mrs Straker back four times, and never got an answer. Her own phone rang three times; she didn’t pick it up, but pressed 1471 each time. The calls were from Sophie, Uncle Ted and Sophie respectively.

She owed Sophie an explanation, but couldn’t face that now. And anyway, when Mick returned tomorrow,