Merrily inspected Jane in her school uniform, hoping it wasn’t only familiarity that made her daughter look innocent rather than sultry and faintly menacing like some of the other girls you saw waiting for the school bus. Jane going, on her own, to see Pierce … that was kind of admirable, but whether Pierce would regard it as mature and socially aware was a different matter.

‘You haven’t done anything else I should know about, have you?’

Call it intuition.

‘He used to shoot blue tits off nut dispensers,’ Jane said.

‘What?’

‘Lyndon Pierce. When he was a kid. Lucy Devenish tried to stop him and he pointed his airgun at her, and then Gomer—’

‘Gomer told you this?’

‘Gomer took the gun off him and flattened it under his JCB. I bet the bastard didn’t put that in his election leaflets.’

‘Jane—’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and blackmail him or anything.’ Jane shouldered her airline bag. ‘I’m probably not even going to say anything about his old man, Percy Pierce, doing a dirty deal with the disgusting Rod Powell to get this, like, agricultural restriction lifted.’

‘What?’

‘So he could build Lyndon’s revolting Las Vegas-style villa. I’m not going to hang that on him … yet.’

‘Good,’ Merrily said. ‘I’m delighted you’re probably not going to attempt to blackmail the local councillor, because it is, as you know, a serious crime.’

‘Building on Coleman’s Meadow is also a crime,’ Jane said. ‘Well … better get off, I suppose.’

The phone started ringing. Merrily rose.

‘There is something I don’t know, isn’t there?’

‘Well, obviously, there must be lots of things, Mum,’ Jane said. ‘But I can’t imagine anything that would cause you a particular problem.’

‘When did you ever?’

As soon as Merrily heard Spicer’s voice on the phone, flat and neutral as underlay, it came to her how much she didn’t want to go back there.

‘You had a good night, then,’ he said.

‘I had a bloody awful night. But how would you know?’

The time for civility was long gone. It was clear that Wychehill – whatever Wychehill was – needed help, the element of nervous dysfunction quiveringly obvious. And, as Lol had said when she’d rung to tell him about last night, it was surely time that Spicer did something about it, rather than some outsider. Of course, that could just have been Lol not wanting her to go back either.

‘I’m glad you went,’ Spicer said.

‘You were told to call me off, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah, but I couldn’t reach you, could I?’

‘Of course you could.’

‘Sure.’

‘Who told you to call me off?’

‘Preston.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s just a funny bloke. Proprietorial. His family goes back. I mean, really goes back – Norman times. I’m not saying he doesn’t like outsiders, exactly – the guy’s running upmarket holiday accommodation on his farm – but he likes to be in control. And people in Wychehill like him to be in control. They’re all outsiders and they like to buy into the history. Even Holliday.’

‘So Holliday was firing Devereaux’s bullets?’

‘Holliday would’ve run with Elgar’s ghost, all the way to the News of the World, even if he doesn’t believe a word of it. Maybe because he doesn’t believe a word. I can understand Devereaux not wanting that – I wouldn’t want it.’

‘But you weren’t there last night.’

‘No point. It was a stitch-up. But like I say, I’m glad you went. It worked out. A requiem will be spot-on. Everybody happy.’

‘Why do I feel I’ve been stitched up?’

‘Trust me, it’s the best thing. Devereaux respects you now. That counts.’

‘What about Stella Cobham?’

‘Oh, he isn’t gonna forget that, is he? She came close to making a fool of him.’

‘And what’s your feeling now about … what we’re dealing with?’

‘Don’t matter what my feelings are. What are yours?’

‘It’s impressive. But if there’s going to be a requiem, maybe you should do it.’

No.’

Startled by the force of Spicer’s response, Merrily said nothing.

‘It’s not my thing. All right? I can get you the names and addresses of the dead kids’ parents. Been in touch with the priest handling the joint funeral in Cookman’s parish. I can make the arrangements – all you have to do is show up.’

‘This coming Sunday? Evening?’

‘Why not? Thank you, Merrily.’ A long expulsion of breath; he was smoking. ‘I hear you were up on the hill last night.’

She was getting used to how long it took him to get around to crucial issues.

‘All it was … a CID man I know was in charge up there. He thought I might be able to help. He was wrong.’

‘Why’d he think that, Merrily?’

‘Because it looked as if there was a ritual element to it.’

‘Nah,’ Spicer said. ‘It’s urban business, innit?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was a bouncer. At the Oak.’

‘I didn’t know that. Syd…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Are there still serious drugs coming out of there, in quantity?’

‘That what your pal thinks?’

‘Not my place. But I did hear something about Preston Devereaux’s boy. Not Hugo, the other one.’

‘Louis. He’s about twenty-three now. What did you hear?’

‘That he’d gone off the rails after the hunt ban.’

‘Yeah, that’s true. Youngest-ever master of the East Malvern hunt. Lived for it, totally. Ban came in, he had a breakdown, of sorts. Like his life had been cut off at the roots.’

‘But his father … moved on?’

‘As he likes to say. Yeah, he sold the horses. All the other hunts, with the tacit approval of the gutless wankers in the Cabinet, are doing pretend drag hunts where foxes just accidentally get killed. Preston’s too proud.’

‘So when he says, you move on…’

‘He means, you move on, disguising your rage and loathing. Don’t give them the satisfaction.’

‘And does that also explain his attitude to the Royal Oak?’

‘You’re doing very well, Merrily,’ Spicer said. ‘It usually takes outsiders years to acquire that level of local understanding.’

‘I live in a village.’

‘He’s right,’ Bliss said. ‘Roman Wicklow. A hard-boy.’

He wouldn’t talk on the phone, so it was back to that same table in the Cathedral cloisters. Outside, it was an all-too-typical midsummer morning: small, white sun crowded by sour clouds, not very warm.

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