The Lamp of the Wicked

result, but he didn’t enlighten her. She caught up with the others.

‘Never seems to stop raining these days, does it?’ she said to nobody in particular, reaching for her hood.

‘Aspect of global warming,’ a white-bearded man growled. ‘We only have ourselves to blame.’

‘I suppose so.’

There was a solitary street lamp at a staggered crossroads, a signpost pointing through the rain to Ross in the west, Lydbrook in the east. Ahead of them, Merrily saw sporadic cottages and modern houses edging warily up a stubbly hillside with the pylons marching behind. In the dusk, with few lights, it looked stark, like a big, sloping cemetery.

‘We’ll use the village hall, I think,’ Fergus Young said.

Not what Merrily was expecting, given the bleakness of the village. Nor, after the abattoir ambience of Ledwardine parish hall, what she was used to.

It had evidently been a barn, left over from the days when the village centre had formed around old farms. Now it was the classiest kind of barn conversion: chairs with tapestry seats, tables of antique pine. Wall lights shone softly on unplastered rubblestone, open beams and rafters.

A sandstone lintel, above a window in the end wall, had one word carved into it: ARICONIUM.

There was also a coffee bar. A dark, wiry guy with a shaven head went behind it, flicking switches. ‘Gotta be espresso, I’m afraid. That all right for everyone? Inspector?’ London accent.

‘Lovely,’ Frannie Bliss said. Merrily wondered how long before he succumbed to caffeine poisoning. She took a seat near the door, glad she was wearing civvies.

Most of the villagers, including all the kids, had dropped away at the entrance. Now there were only four locals in the hall: the shaven-headed guy, the man with the white beard, a weathered woman in her fifties wearing a tan riding jacket. And Fergus Young, lean and rangy and looking more relaxed in here, briskly unzipping his orange tracksuit top.

‘I’ll introduce everyone very quickly, OK? Ingrid Sollars, who runs our visitor centre; Chris Cody making the coffee – Chris is also on the Development Committee – and, er… Sam Hall.’

‘Not on the Development Committee.’ The bearded man was sitting on the edge of one of the tables. He had thin white hair dragged back into a ponytail, was maybe in his mid-sixties. Merrily had the feeling he’d invited himself to the party.

‘And… I’m sorry.’ Fergus Young turned to Frannie Bliss. ‘Inspector… ?

‘Bliss.’

‘Of course. And your colleague… Sergeant, is it?’

‘One day maybe, if she keeps her nose clean.’ Bliss smiled blandly at Merrily. ‘This is DC Watkins.’

Merrily smiled back fractionally, saying nothing. Yeah, well, it probably made sense; the truth would only provoke questions they could do without right now.

She sat quietly, like a minion. In the civilized warmth, she was aware of her thoughts being sucked back into Roddy Lodge’s necro-erotic grotto. This wasn’t something she felt qualified to analyse; it needed a forensic psychiatrist more than a priest. In fact, specialist advice was essential before Bliss took this any further – although obtaining it would mean alerting his superiors to the possibility of something far more extensive, more labyrinthine, than a one-off domestic killing. Which was why he was counting on her to soften Lodge. And she wasn’t going to be up to that, was she?

‘And what’s the Development Committee, exactly?’ Bliss said.

There was laughter from Chris Cody with the shaven head, the youngest of them – probably mid-to-late twenties. He and Ingrid Sollars were laying out bright red cups and saucers on the bar top.

‘It’s what we’re obliged to call ourselves to attract lots of terribly useful grants from various organizations,’ Fergus Young explained. ‘But it’s all rather more casual than it sounds.’

‘Brings results, however.’ Merrily recognized the voice which had earlier accused Bliss of being patronizing. ‘I was born here,’ Ingrid Sollars said, ‘and I can tell you this community has prospered more in the past five years than in the previous forty. We don’t intend to let it slip back, and that’s why we don’t need any of the more unsavoury kind of publicity.’

‘Man’s only doing his job, Ingrid,’ Sam Hall said mildly.

‘Notoriety we can do without.’

‘Lot of things we can do without.’

‘Let’s stick to the point, shall we?’ Fergus Young glanced at Sam and then at Bliss, smiled and shook his head, as though implying this was a little local conflict, nothing to worry the police. Sam Hall wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at the ceiling. Chris Cody and Ingrid Sollars began to hand out coffees.

‘Ta very much.’ Bliss sipped contentedly, glancing from face to face. ‘So, how well do we all know Mr Lodge?’

Ingrid Sollars frowned. ‘Well enough not to say another word until you tell us what he’s supposed to have done.’ She had grey-brown hair pulled back into a tight bun.

‘All right.’ Bliss sat down and stretched out his legs. ‘I can tell you this much, some of which you’ll know already. We’re investigating the suspicious death of a thirty-nine-year-old woman whose body was found on Mr Lodge’s… property. It’s now been confirmed by a pathologist that this woman was strangled.’

‘Oh, shit.’ Chris Cody sat down.

Sam Hall swung his trainered feet to the floor. ‘You’re saying you’ve charged Roddy with murder?’

‘We’ve not charged him with anything yet.’

‘But you’re going to?’

‘Would you advise me not to, sir?’

There was silence, except for noises from the coffee machine and rain on the window. It was quite dark outside now.

‘Poor Roddy,’ Fergus Young said.

Bliss tilted his head, inviting him to expand.

‘I…’ Young sighed. ‘All right, I’m the local head teacher – at the primary school. If you’d told me that one of the kids had committed a murder, my reaction would be much the same. I’m not saying he’s in any way retarded – well, maybe emotionally, and I’m not qualified to give an opinion on that. But the idea of Roddy Lodge as a murderer… it’s just hard to—’

‘This woman.’ Ingrid Sollars was still on her feet. ‘The dead woman. Who is she?’

‘Sorry. Can’t tell you that until she’s been formally identified.’

‘Is she local?’

‘Depends what you mean by local. I’m sorry.’

‘Because questions were being asked in the village about a woman who… who’s been missing for some time.’

Bliss nodded. Merrily recalled his mention of another missing woman.

‘Inspector Bliss, have you found the body of Melanie Pullman?’ Ingrid Sollars stood in front of him, her back arched. ‘Is Melanie Pullman dead?’

Bliss folded his arms. Merrily tried to catch his gaze; this wasn’t fair.

‘Did you know Miss Pullman?’ Bliss asked.

‘She worked weekends for me when I was running a riding school. Then she started going out with Roddy Lodge and I didn’t see her so often.’

‘Why did she break up with Roddy?’

‘I assume because he took up with another woman.’

‘Which nobody could understand,’ Sam Hall said. ‘Melanie was a nice girl and pretty, whereas the other woman looked, uh…’ He glanced at Ingrid Sollars, smiled and shook his head.

‘What?’ Bliss asked.

‘OK, good-looking, but older and… kind of a hard bitch, you want the truth.’

Sam Hall had a curious hybrid accent: the Gloucester roll you found east of Ross made more fluid by something transatlantic. Ingrid Sollars stared at him like he’d already said far too much.

‘So who’s the other woman?’ Bliss said casually.

‘Aw hell, Ingrid,’ Sam Hall said, ‘this is all gonna come out – why waste time? Name’s Lynsey Davies,