The Cold Calling

II

‘Look at you,’ said Kelvyn. ‘Coming apart, you are. Your jawline’s gone, your cheeks are caving in …’

Cindy peered in the mirror. The blasted bird wasn’t entirely wrong.

‘As for your legs …’ Kelvyn cackled. ‘Well, no wonder you have to wear black stockings. It’ll be bloody surgical stockings before long, you mark my words, lovely, you mark my words.’

‘Shut it,’ Cindy snapped, ‘or I’ll bang down the lid on your neck and leave your head hanging out all night again.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Try me, bach, you try me.’

‘Becoming a nasty old bag, you are. Not getting enough, is it?’

‘Enough what?’

‘You know what I mean. Laughs.’

‘That’s it,’ snarled Cindy. ‘Back in the case. And think yourself lucky. You know what the props boy said to me this morning? He said, Here, Mr Mars, why do you have to keep carrying that thing back and-’

‘Thing?’

‘His precise word.’

‘He’s a dead man.’

‘… why do you keep carrying that thing back and forth, back and forth? Why don’t you leave it in the dressing room? Nobody’ll mess with it.’

‘That’s what they said in Blackpool, and next morning I’m dangling off the end of a flagpole with a pair of knickers in my beak.’

‘What are you moaning about? Got your picture in the Daily Mirror.’

‘It was humiliating.’

‘No publicity is humiliating. Come on … off we go, back to the digs.’

With no ceremony but perhaps the dregs of affection, Cindy dumped Kelvyn in his imitation-crocodile suitcase, the bird still rambling on in his muffled way as Cindy lugged the case to. the dressing room door. ‘Don’t know why we can’t get decent digs any more. I remember, I do, when we had a three-room suite in …’

‘Oh,’ Cindy said. ‘Good evening, ladies.’

The two cleaners giggled. Margot and Sarah. Been outside the door listening for a good five minutes. Cindy gave them a free show after the matinee every Friday. On a long summer season, it was important, for your general health, to keep the cleaners on your side.

‘He’s a card, isn’t he, Mr Mars?’

‘Irrepressible.’

‘Does he sleep in your bedroom?’

‘Perches on the curtain rail, he does,’ said Cindy. ‘Course, he’s awake at first light, the bugger. Chatting up this little gull, he was, at six-thirty this morning. Six-thirty!’

‘Gotta get what you can these days, lovely. In Bournemouth, a red kite’s worth ten points among your common seagulls, did you know that? Quite sexy, she was, this one, mind, so you never know how it might turn out. All together now, The bells are ringing, for me and my gull … haw, haw, haw.’

‘Shut up, or you won’t get any of Mrs Capaldi’s lasagne.’

‘Call that a threat?’

‘Oh,’ said the younger cleaner, Sarah, paling.

‘Oh God,’ said the older cleaner, Margot.

They weren’t laughing any more.

Sarah fiddled with her duster. ‘I didn’t know you were staying with Mrs Capaldi, Mr Mars.’

‘We always stay with Mrs Capaldi in Bournemouth. Forget all that posh hotel stuff, Kelvyn lies through his beak.’

‘You haven’t seen tonight’s Echo, then?’

‘It’s just awful,’ said Margot. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. She was a difficult enough girl, heaven knows, but nobody on this earth deserves that. Nobody.’

Dear God.

By the time he reached the Bella Vista Guesthouse, Cindy had read the Echo story twice.

Maria Capaldi? Maria?

Maria it was who had first called him Cindy, when she was quite small and couldn’t get her lips around Sydney. Uncle Cindy.

The Echo had a photograph of her, from the days before she’d had her hair cut short, before the nose-rings. The photo from Mrs Capaldi’s mantelpiece, taken on the girl’s eighteenth birthday, when she was due to go to university — from which she would drop out a year later. Mrs Capaldi would have handed it willingly to the press, a beautiful memorial, the last picture of an unsullied, unembittered Maria.

Cindy had bewildered tears in his eyes as he turned the corner and saw — as if the report needed confirmation — a police car outside Bella Vista and another car behind it, both on the double yellows.

The VACANCIES sign had been replaced by an ominously crooked NO VACANCIES. The little, square lobby was deserted, the picture postcards hanging limply from their rack alongside the pink and blue poster announcing KELVYN KITE (with Cindy Mars) with a picture of both of them wearing mocking smiles.

‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s closed.’ A policewoman had pushed through the bead curtain.

‘I … er … I’m staying here.’

‘What name is it?’

‘Mars-Lewis. Sydney Mars-Lewis.’

The policewoman vanished into the chinking curtain. When she came back, she said, ‘Sorry, Mr Lewis, but you might have been a reporter.’ Lowered her voice. ‘Know what’s happened, do you?’

Cindy nodded, as there came a wail from within. ‘Let ‘im in! Let ‘im in!’ The policewoman shrugged and held back the beads for him, and Cindy went through into the artificial darkness and the real despair.

The curtains were drawn tight in the residents’ lounge, a table lamp shone under a picture of Jesus. Mrs Capaldi was a tiny creature in a corner of the four-seater sofa. A teacup shivered in its saucer on her aproned knees. Her greying black hair was in stiff peaks. Fresh make-up plastered over tearstains.

‘Cindy …’ She held out both hands, like a drowning woman, and Cindy took one, kneeling on the carpet at the side of the sofa. ‘What I do? What I ever do to anybody to deserve this ‘appen to me?’

All the times he’d heard her ask this about Maria, alive.

‘Mr Lewis.’ A youngish man with thinning hair arose from a deep armchair. ‘Peter Hatch, Detective Chief Inspector. I, er, brought my children to see your show a couple of years ago. Very, er …’

Cindy moved to shake hands, but Mrs Capaldi held on to him. The detective nodded, smiled briefly, sat down again. He spoke quietly.

‘You have much to do with Maria, Mr Lewis?’

‘Less lately than at one time,’ Cindy said. ‘Although we did have our discussions about blood sports. Which both of us deplored.’

‘So you knew what she was doing in that wood?’

‘Shamed me into going with them once, she did.’

‘Oh God,’ cried Mrs Capaldi. ‘Oh, Cindy, why couldn’t it be you with her today, instead of that stupid Martin?’

‘Alas,’ Cindy explained to the detective. ‘Always been a little queasy about open confrontation, I have. Maria was braver than me.’ He sighed. ‘Poor dab. Poor dab. Have you … you know …?’

We’re talking to a few people,’ DCI Hatch said. ‘I don’t anticipate a long investigation. What I’m trying to find out from Mrs Capaldi is if it was well known that Maria was a hunt saboteur. If she’d ever received any personal abuse or threats as a result.’

‘An’ I say to ‘im, even if she ‘ad a threat to kill ‘er, the last person she ever tell about it is ‘er own mother.’

Cindy squeezed Mrs Capaldi’s hand as the tears spurted. Yes, he’d known where Maria was going today. Even wishing her luck last night. Yeah, she’d said, with a limp good-night wave of the hand. Tally ho, Cindy. It wasn’t something she enjoyed any more; it was something she had to do, like hospital visiting or donating blood.

He shivered. Shot. Shot dead in a clearing in the forest, the paper said. The cleaner was right; it didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Like she was lying in a bed,’ Mrs Capaldi said faintly. ‘A sheet tucked up around her chin.’

Cindy looked at Hatch.

‘Mortuary,’ Hatch mumbled. There was an uncomfortable silence. Hatch made eye contact with the policewoman. ‘More tea, I think, Alison.’

Cindy said, ‘What … kind of person are you looking for?’

‘This stage, we have to examine all the options. My money’s on some sixteen-year-old yobbo who, at this moment, is a very frightened kid.’

‘Or a hunt supporter?’

Hatch smiled thinly. ‘Now you’re being controversial, Mr Lewis.’

‘Pah!’ said Mrs Capaldi. ‘’Unters! Big family, lotsa money. You never gonna pin it on a ‘unters.’

‘Mrs Capaldi, I can assure you that, at this stage, nobody has been ruled out.’

‘Pah.’ Mrs Capaldi’s tear-glazed eyes rising to a lurid Pre-Raphaelite madonna over the fireplace. ‘She was a good girl, a lovely girl when she wanted. She got principles. More than me. Her father, ‘e ‘ad principles. Me, I like peace and quiet. She say, Mum, she say, you just a cucumber. Vegetable. Make me so mad sometime.’

‘Maria had integrity,’ Cindy said. ‘She believed that everything had a right to life.’

Mrs Capaldi struggled to the edge of the sofa as the policewoman approached with a cup. ‘I don’ wan’ more tea. I told you, I wan’ see where my daughter die. It’s my right. I wan’ you take me, Cindy, in your car.’

‘As I said, Mrs Capaldi,’ Hatch said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t advise it. Not at the moment. There’ll be press everywhere, and TV crews …’

‘Wassa problem with TV an’ a papers? I don’ wan’ ‘ush this up. I wan’ everybody know what these bastard do.’

Hatch shot an appeal at Cindy, but Cindy pretended not to notice; he said, ‘Of course I’ll take you, my love.’

‘Mr Lewis-’

‘Catharsis, inspector, catharsis. Don’t you think?’

Hatch sighed. ‘All right. In which case, perhaps we should all go with WPC Webber in the police car, or you might have trouble getting past our people.’

Cindy nodded, helping Mrs Capaldi to her feet.

In the event, there were no cameramen, as Hatch must have known. This part of the forest was sealed off by a police road block on the track.

The immediate area was taped. There were several police hanging around, although there didn’t seem to be much for them to do, except to drive away photographers and sensation-seekers, and try not to look at Mrs Capaldi.

‘As soon as you want to leave …’ Hatch said.

She shook her head, waved him away.

‘Peaceful,’ she said. ‘Such a beautiful place. Nowhere is safe any more.’

She’d put on a black hat and black gloves, dark glasses. Being the centre of attention had calmed her, Cindy thought. The irony of it was that, if it hadn’t been family, Mrs Capaldi, who read lurid magazines, would have derived a shivery excitement from being so close to a murder investigation. She crossed herself and walked alone into the trees. Hatch nodded to WPC Webber to follow her.

A soft, early-evening sun cast a pastel glaze on the forest; yes, it was a lovely spot. And yet, left alone, Cindy felt suddenly tense. If this outing was going to be cathartic for Mrs Capaldi, it was having quite the opposite effect on him. There was a sense of imbalance. Of the world itself horribly askew.

A young, bearded detective with a mobile phone came over. ‘Bloody hell, sir, did you know there were no less than four crossbow clubs in the general vicinity? What’s the world coming-Oh, sorry.’

Hatch hustled the detective away from Cindy.

Who was startled. A crossbow? In the paper, it had said simply that Maria had been shot. The police were obviously sitting on the crossbow angle for the moment. What else had they not yet disclosed?

Cindy stood motionless in the clearing. It was still an old woodland. Part of the prehistoric and medieval landscape he liked to walk on Sundays. Fordingbridge to the northwest … a castle mound beyond there … several tumuli … And, of course, as soon as they’d arrived, he’d spotted the motte and bailey nearby. Probably built on a prehistoric site. It would certainly have been here when William Rufus …

He closed his eyes, emptied his mind and at once felt a frigid trembling in his solar plexus and a powerful sense of residual evil around this soft-lit glade.

A crossbow.

An horrific flash-image of Maria with a steel bolt nailing her to the floor of the forest.

He turned away, his hands cold and tingling. He moved to the edge of the tape and walked away along the track for a few yards.

‘Has something occurred to you, Mr Lewis?’ He turned sharply to find DCI Hatch right behind him.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose something has.’

‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘It’s probably already occurred to you. Being a local man. Do you know the story of the death of William II? William Rufus, son of the Conqueror?’

‘Shot in the forest, wasn’t he? By a man with a … oh, right.’

‘A crossbow,’ Cindy said. ‘In this very forest.’

‘About eight hundred years ago, as I recall,’ Hatch said. ‘Unlikely we’re looking for the same man, then.’

‘No.’

‘And no, it hadn’t occurred to me,’ Hatch said flatly, ‘I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps not so much a man, Chief Inspector, as a tradition. We know who killed William. It was his own huntsman, Walter Tirel. During a hunting expedition, the king shot a stag, wounding it, following its flight and holding up his hand, ostensibly to protect his eyes from the brightness of the setting sun. At which signal, Tirel, purporting to aim at another stag, shot the king.’

Hatch said, ‘Signal?’ Showing he had, at least, been paying attention.

‘Do you know the Margaret Murray theory? That William was a ritual sacrifice?’

‘The only Margaret Murray I know,’ Hatch said heavily, ‘is a Labour councillor on the police committee.’

‘This one was an academic. An historian. Dr Murray published her anthropological history of witchcraft and paganism in 1931. Her theory was that although William Rufus might have appeared to support the Church, it seems likely he was a lifelong pagan. As the king, he would have been regarded as a god incarnate, and he was growing old. Well, a god could never grow old or weak or feeble. He must die for his people, to strengthen their attachment to this new land. And, of course, as the king, he was permitted to select the time and circumstances of his own ritual death.’

‘Dubious privilege,’ Hatch said. No doubt thinking, Old Welsh queen’s lost his marbles.

Cindy walked into the centre of the clearing.

‘The king had prepared himself for death, had eaten and drunk well and taken possession of six fresh bolts for his crossbow. Two of which he handed to Walter Tirel before they left. When he was shot, William then broke off the wooden shaft of the bolt and fell upon the stump.’

‘Very interesting, sir,’ Hatch said. ‘But I’d be glad if you wouldn’t mention crossbows to anyone at this stage. Probably be common knowledge by tomorrow, but by then we can’ve pinned down every crossbow-owning nutter between here and-’

Cindy said, ‘Do you see the beauty of it? William let the Earth finish him.’

‘To be honest, Mr Lewis, I don’t see much of a link here. Two crossbow killings eight hundred years apart?’

‘Just thought you should be aware of it, Chief Inspector.’

‘Yes. Thank you very much, sir. Do you think we could persuade Mrs Capaldi to go home now?’