Remains of an Altar

cop, all that shit. How they make you confess to what you didn’t do. Come at you and come at you till you don’t know whether it’s night or freaking day.’

‘Bad experience, Winnie, but I didn’t get him arrested. My business here’s road accidents. And that’s as good as over. I’m just drawing lines under things.’

‘Well, you go draw your lines someplace else.’

‘Why don’t you want me to talk to him?’

‘That’s how you choose to see it, you go right ahead. You put it all on me.’

Unbelievable. Was this really the same woman who, a couple of nights ago, in this very spot, had been all let’s-get-together and explaining how the rocks were in pain, telling Merrily how cute she was?

… And her kittenish fawning and her, Oh, don’t you look so cool today, Paul.

‘All right,’ Merrily said. ‘How about I just talk to you?’

‘Later.’ Winnie Sparke’s eyes were like smoked glass. ‘I have to take care of Tim.’

In the church, the organ started up, low and growling chords. Winnie smiled.

‘Giving himself a fix.’

‘He’ll be OK on his own for a while, then.’

‘Look, I’ll call you sometime. OK?’

‘It’s a public place, the church. I often go into other churches to pray. I think I feel the need—’

‘No…’

Winnie’s hands were out, clawed again.

‘You really going to scratch my eyes out? Winnie, I’ve been messed about for days, and my daughter’s got some problems and I need to go home. I’m asking for a few minutes of your time. Or if you’re determined to have an unseemly cat fight to prevent me entering a church…’ Merrily unslung her bag, dropped it at her feet. ‘Then let’s do it.’

The sun burned down and the church shimmered.

‘OK.’ Winnie Sparke’s hands fell, her shoulders slumping. ‘But give me three minutes to go talk to him.’

‘I expect there’s a back door, right?’

‘You have my word,’ Winnie said.

Merrily sighed.

‘Save me some time, Frannie,’ Merrily said into the phone. ‘Just tell me why he’s out.’

Bliss left the line open while he went downstairs to the car park.

‘Yeh, it’s true.’

‘I know it’s true. I’ve just seen him. When did they let him go?’

‘Your friend Sparke collected him from Worcester about an hour ago. The DNA evidence was, to say the least, inconclusive. But, mainly, other developments have altered the focus of the case in a way more meaningful for me, as an observer.’

‘Can you tell me?’

‘With the usual proviso. The murder I told you about in Pershore – the drug dealer tortured and shot in his car, Christopher Smith? We may have his killer.’

‘In custody?’

‘In a manner of speaking, although he won’t be signing a confession. What happened, two mates of Smith’s, encouraged by a modest reward and considerably emboldened, no doubt, by news of Roman Wicklow’s death, have now come forward to say that they saw Mr Smith leaving a nightclub in Worcester on the night of the killing, in the company of Mr Wicklow. Mr Wicklow being, as we’ve learned, a man who inspired considerable fear in his community.’

‘Wicklow murdered Smith?’

‘It begins to look like it.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘Apparently we do not, at this stage. But it’s usually a simple territorial dispute.’

‘So if they were both dealers and Wicklow was working for Khan, who was Smith working for?’

‘Dunno. It was part-time with Smith, he had a day job in an abattoir. Maybe he was also working for Khan. These situations get complicated. Maybe Smith had been unreliable and Wicklow was assigned to take him out. We don’t know, Merrily, that’s the honest answer.’

‘But Loste is off the hook.’

‘’Course he isn’t. They just had to let him go for the moment. No DNA pointers, and the CPS advised that there was insufficient evidence to support a murder charge.’

‘So they could have him in again?’

‘He’s a big lad, Merrily, and clearly three sheets in the wind.’

‘But surely the idea of a former music teacher killing a man who’s now emerging as a cold and practised assassin…’

‘Look,’ Bliss said, ‘I agree with you. Like I said, I think it’s drug-related and even though there’s evidence of Loste trading with Wicklow on the Beacon, if it was me I’d be looking to talk to the friends of Mr Smith – the ones we don’t know about yet. And Raji, naturally. But it’s not me, it’s Annie Howe, and Howe’s still keen on Mr Loste. On the points scale, one nice, educated, upper-middle-class killer is worth at least five street urchins.’

Surprisingly, Winnie Sparke came out of the church. Alone, but it was a start.

Merrily guided her to Longworth’s tomb under the Angel of the Agony. Winnie seemed uneasy about this, glancing up a couple of times before perching on the edge of a step. The Angel’s half-spread wings were shielding them against the sun, but in a predatory way.

The hell with him. Merrily sat down and leaned a shoulder into the lower folds of his marble robe.

‘Sometimes this job can be quite damaging to your faith, Winnie.’

‘I don’t care for faith. Faith is intellectually lazy.’

‘OK, skip the theological debate.’

‘It’s your show.’

‘Until I ask you something you don’t want to answer.’

Winnie shrugged. The organ started up again, something that Merrily half recognized. Not Elgar, too clipped, like fine topiary. Bach?

‘Bottom line, here?’ Winnie said.

‘Bottom line is the ghost of Edward Elgar. It’s the only reason I’m here, and I’ve wasted enough time on it. And I’m fed up with being circuitous. Did Tim make it up, or did he, in some way, conjure it up? Is he disturbed, sick or just a drunk?’

‘You want me to place a tick against one of the above?’

‘Or if a fourth possibility got missed out along the way…’

‘And what if I was to tell you…’ Winnie looked down into her lap ‘… that I didn’t know?’

‘I thought you’d at least have an opinion, all the esoteric subjects I assume you’ve studied.’

‘In order to write books, it helps to study.’

‘Is that still what you do?’

‘It’s an income. Not a good one. Better in the States. Life is more expensive here, and Mind, Body, Spirit books don’t sell so many.’

‘Are you doing a book on this?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Is that why you’re playing it close to the chest?’

Winnie didn’t answer.

Merrily said, ‘I don’t write books. Sometimes I have to make reports, but they’re internal. Say, for the Bishop, or as a safeguard against comebacks, or background notes for my successor in the job.’

‘This may be the book I get remembered for,’ Winnie said.

‘Not just another New Age paperback.’

‘No. I came over ten years ago on account of an English guy who was … who proved to be not Mr Right. Not even Mr Halfway Right. Couple years ago, I realized that if I was to stay – and I kind of like it here – I needed a project that would turn over some bigger money. I conceived the idea of a book that would explore the spiritual