‘What if he does it to somebody else?’
‘He won’t.’
‘This man you don’t know. What if he comes back?’
Silence.
‘Either you tell me exactly what happened,’ Merrily had said, ‘or I ring my friend in the police, who knows me well enough by now to—’
‘All right. But you’ll be the first and last to hear this.’
Muriel Morningwood got up at first light, as usual, letting Roscoe and then the chickens out into the mist.
Her attacker had simply followed her back into the house, trapping the dog with the door, kicking him back out, slamming the door.
He wore camouflage clothing, no skin exposed, and what had been most frightening about him was not the hood with the eyeholes, but the flesh-coloured surgical gloves, one of them coming at her face as she turned and then there was an explosion in her left eye and she’d been thrown into the living room, punched repeatedly in the mouth, stomach, mouth again. Slammed to the floor, her scalp raked on a corner of the piano stool, hair filling up with blood, as he knelt astride her and put on the condom.
She was a strong woman, very fit. Self-sufficient. Prided herself on it, always thought she’d be able to defend herself. What you never accounted for was the effect of shock — the way the body, untrained, was shocked into a kind of inner collapse by sustained, unrelenting, extreme violence.
The sound of the car had stopped it. He’d lifted himself, listening and she’d managed to scream. He’d been kneeling over her, holding her down with both hands and when she opened her mouth, he’d slammed a hand across it, freeing one of her arms, and she’d punched him as hard as she could in the balls, and he’d uncoiled in agony, clutching himself with both hands, and she’d squirmed away, blinded by the blood, just as the footsteps had sounded on the path.
She’d thought he looked at her once, through his eyeholes, and then he wasn’t there, only the smell of his sweat, his fluids, her own blood.
It had been obvious to Merrily that if she hadn’t shown up when she did, Mrs Morningwood would, by now, have been waiting for Dr Grace, the pathologist. And something else was also clear.
‘You can’t stay here.’
‘Where would I go?’
‘I live in a big house.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘There’s no alternative, Mrs Morningwood.’
‘There’ll be other people.’
‘Only Jane. And, at the moment, a woman priest who’s standing in. I’ll need to tell her to go. Is there anyone who can look after things here?’
There was a couple, graphic artists from the village, reflexology patients who’d helped out once before when Mrs Morningwood had had to go away. She’d got Merrily to phone them, explain that she had to travel to see a patient urgently, in Devon. No problem, they’d come and look after the chickens and anything else, morning and night, until further notice.
When Mrs Morningwood had brought down an old brown case, Merrily had one last try.
‘I know a good copper. A decent guy.’
Mrs Morningwood had held out her cigarette to Merrily’s lighter, both hands trembling.
‘Wasting your breath, darling.’
‘He was on foot,’ Merrily said. ‘Where could he have been going when I saw him?’
‘Anywhere.’ Watery blood soaking into the wobbling cigarette from lips failing to grip. ‘Over the hill and far away.’
38
Doormat
On the way here, Lol had glimpsed a signpost and braked. At the next junction, he’d turned round and gone back. Sat in the cab of the truck, gazing at the three words on the sign. A name with only one meaning. A place of sorrowful pilgrimage.
He hadn’t realized that he was going to be so close. No time now, but there would be no excuse on the way back. He’d turned round again and driven on into the Warwickshire countryside, and now the Animal was in an off- road parking area a short way from the castle lodge.
A burger van was opening up at the far end. The big man in the long tan leather coat evidently knew the burger guy because he walked past him without a glance, directly to Lol’s truck, and Lol lowered his window.
Five times he’d attempted to call Merrily on her mobile. It was always switched off. He’d left two messages, the first one explaining he had a chance to talk to Lord Stourport and how far did she want him to go? The second one saying that if she didn’t call back within twenty minutes he was going to be late.
‘Yow got business here, pal?’ the man in the leather coat said.
Lol told him he had an appointment with Lord Stourport in — he looked at the dashboard clock — twelve minutes?
The man, who had gelled hair and chewed gum, asked for his name and Lol told him, and the man nodded and went back to the lodge. Lol sat back and waited and kept seeing the signpost in his mind’s eye.
He’d never been there. He’d spoken to dozens of people who
When his phone rang, he didn’t even look at the caller’s number.
‘Merrily.’
‘Uh, no. Lol, its me … it’s Eirion, it is.’
‘Oh,’ Lol said. ‘Hello, Eirion.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d probably be gigging at night. Saw a piece on you. In
‘No, I didn’t. Eirion, look—’
‘It was pretty good.’ Eirion’s South Wales accent kicking in, usually a sign of nerves. ‘It was this guy who’d seen you in Hazey Jane when he was young. He said Hazey Jane were never quite as good as they might have been. Or as good as they would be now if they’d had the quality of material you’re producing at the moment. Something like that.’
‘Well, that’s …’
‘Pretty positive.’
‘… Not really the reason for your call, is it?’
‘Er, no,’ Eirion said. ‘No, it isn’t.’
This would have to be about Jane who, according to Merrily, had not heard from Eirion for a couple of weeks and was thinking she’d been dumped. And he’d love to find out something that might help, but this really wasn’t a good time.
‘Eirion, could I call you back? I’m expecting—’
‘Lol,
‘Well … yeah, OK. As long as it—’
‘Only I rang the vicarage, see, I was going to ask Mrs Watkins, but this other woman answered. Is there something wrong, Lol? Have they — you know —
‘Where?’
‘Gone. Left.’
‘Good God, no.’
‘Then why isn’t she returning my calls, Lol?’
