The Lamp of the Wicked

along the passage. Red lights, pictures of Spanish dancers – nothing to offend, other than aesthetically, and I don’t imagine there’ve been too many cultural exchanges in there. So if we assume that’s where he takes the, er, young ladies, then this’ll be where he… enjoys his own company.’

Merrily shuddered. She recalled the shadow of Roddy Lodge standing immediately over her in front of the Pawson house, the birthday-boy look on his trowel-shaped face. A woman? he’d said.

Like: any woman. Another one for the wall.

Bliss stood there, hands in his pockets. They both had their hands in their pockets. Bliss was watching her, waiting.

Merrily met his eyes.

‘Er…’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’re not getting it, are you?’

‘Sorry… ?’

‘Take a closer look, would you, Merrily?’

She didn’t move. ‘I don’t see that—’

‘There’ll probably be some ladies you might not recognize – don’t know them all meself. But the one just to the left of the door, for instance, is Kelly Emerson, who was found raped and murdered in Swindon last year. That was the picture the family gave the police for the crime posters. It was widely used in the papers at the time.’

‘What?’

She followed his forefinger to a blurred black and white face, dark synthetic curls, big smile, naked body in shadow. She didn’t understand; the newspapers had used a nude photograph of a missing woman? She moved in closer, realizing that there was something wrong here, something skewed. Saw that the face of Kelly Emerson was in grainy black and white, but the naked body was studio quality and, on closer inspection, was slightly too big for the face.

Merrily backed rapidly away, aware of breathing harder.

‘Thing is, of course,’ Bliss said, ‘that he couldn’t’ve done that one. There’s a bloke doing life for Kelly. Feller from Bournemouth – they got him on DNA and then he pleaded guilty, no messing. It’s beyond any question.’

‘But…’

Lodge had pasted the cut-out face of a murdered woman onto the body of some anonymous pin-up from the Sun? Just another model… just another dead woman.

She made herself go back and examine both walls more closely. There were several faces she recognized now: celebrity murder victims, celebrity suicides. Also the most famous car- crash casualty of all time. All of them women, all of them now dead, their faces pasted onto cut-out nude bodies – tragic victims twisted, with scissors and paste and lighting, into profane pin-ups.

Merrily turned away from the wall. All the sensations of last night were coming back, from the feeling of grease and smoke in her hair at Gomer’s burned-out depot, to the waves of aftershave, to the cloying perfume of decay under the tarpaulin.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘I think you do, Merrily,’ Bliss said softly. ‘You’re looking at his inspiration. These are the ones he wishes he’d done. The ones he wishes he’d got to first.’

She stood in the dimness, staring no longer at the illuminated wall but into the very thin lines of grey and white between the blades of the Venetian blinds.

‘They’re all paste-ups?’

‘Not all of them. I think some were just piccies he got off on. Part of the mix-’n’-match. I expected to find one of Lynsey, but she’s not there. Maybe because she’s not had her picture in the papers, yet. There’ll be a reason. He…’ Bliss paused. ‘He might tell you what it is.’

It was as though he’d opened the door of a deep-freeze.

‘I can’t do it,’ she said.

‘That’s your decision, Merrily. I can’t force you to see him.’

‘He doesn’t want to talk to me. You know that. He just wants a woman in the room with him. Any woman. You know that.’

She remembered Roddy Lodge passing her his card, scrutinizing her as if taking a mental photograph, offering to tell her all the scary things he’d told the local vicar about what he’d seen in the night. She didn’t like to think now about what he might have seen in the night, inside or outside his own head.

Thanks, she’d said. I’d like that.

Yeah. You would indeed, my darlin’.

Merrily pushed her fists hard into the pockets of Jane’s duffel coat, determined not to shiver. ‘You’d better tell me what you know,’ she said to Bliss. ‘How did he kill Lynsey Davies?’

He shrugged. ‘Strangled her. The PM should confirm it. Roddy told the lads in the car he’d “throttled” her. He just hasn’t said it for the tape yet. Probably not bare hands, we think something was used – possibly a belt.’ He paused. ‘You can probably understand now why I want to dig up a few more Efflapures.’

‘Yes.’ Bliss was probably right to want to dig up every Efflapure that Roddy Lodge had ever planted.

‘I didn’t want to say too much in advance. Open the blinds now, if you’re feeling a bit oppressed.’

She tugged on the cord and grey daylight made the room look merely tawdry. The view, sliced horizontally by the blinds, was further slashed and diced by the great steel legs of the pylon at the edge of Roddy’s garden.

‘Would it offend the crime-scene people overmuch if I had a cigarette?’ Merrily said.

12 Dark Lady

EIRION SUBJECTED JANE to this sideways perusal she didn’t care for. They were heading out of Hereford on the darkening Ledbury road, bound for Knight’s Frome.

‘Like what?’ Jane demanded. ‘Go on, say it!’

They’d been dissecting her mother’s love life to discover precisely why it was going nowhere. From the lofty plateau of a relationship that was actually working – OK, within the restrictive parameters of herself and Eirion being still at school and stuff like that – Jane figured this was legit, her duty even. After all, it had taken her over a year to engineer the Mum/Lol thing.

‘Jane’ – Eirion did this exaggerated sigh – ‘you didn’t, though, did you?’

‘What?’

‘Engineer it. It was nothing to do with you. In fact, if you’d kept your nose out completely, it would probably actually have happened before it did.’

‘Thanks!’

‘Well, it’s true. You can’t leave anything alone.’

‘You totally smug fat git!’

She glared out of the window at the newly stripped hopframes around Perton. When Eirion had picked her up at five p.m., she’d noticed he’d put on a bit of weight, a big Welsh problem.

‘It’s because of all this driving to pick you up,’ Eirion said. ‘Maybe I should stay in and do sit-ups and weight training.’

I’m sorry,’ she said gruffly, not looking at him. ‘I didn’t mean fat… exactly.’

He didn’t respond. They drove in silence for a mile or so. They were in Eirion’s new old car, a little grey Peugeot with one of those CYM stickers identifying the driver as a resident of Wales who’d taken the vehicle abroad, if only to England. In fact, usually only to England.

And everything – like everything – was irritating Jane tonight. Obviously, she loved to talk and theorize about Mum and Lol, but right now – she realized this, she wasn’t stupid – it was also an escape from the aura of manic desperation surrounding Gomer. She wished there was something she could do for him, but even Eirion didn’t have an HGV licence, probably wasn’t old enough. Besides, it would take more than dealing with a backlog of digging contracts to put Gomer back together this time. The big pendulum had taken him down once too often this year. Anxiety began to inflate in her chest; she folded her arms over it.