The Secrets of Pain

11

Mid-morning, Day Three of the Mansel Bull investigation, and the police press officer was on the phone to Bliss. Elly Clatter, this was, ex-local journalist from the Black Country and a nice enough woman if you didn’t mind being treated like a maladjusted kid at play school.

‘Normal way of it, Francis, my duck, I’d be suggesting you maintain a dignified silence. Only it looks to me like this is starting to become a bit of an issue.’

An issue. This year, everything was a frigging issue.

‘And he’s saying what, exactly?’

Sollers Bull. The first formal interviews since his brother’s murder. Hunt hero Sollers Bull, in the Tory tabs. Twat in Bliss’s book.

‘He hasn’t said anything yet. He’s doing TV and radio in about an hour. But if he says what we think he might say, we’re going to need to be ready with some answers.’

‘Not me again, Elly, I’ve done enough.’

Couple of pressers over the past two days. This was a particularly savage and pointless crime. We know the killer left the scene with a considerable amount of blood on his clothing and on his person. Somebody out there knows who this is. This is an individual nobody should be hiding.

Trite crap. Hated the telly, particularly.

‘You can relax,’ Elly said. ‘It’ll just be a quote from a police spokesperson at this stage. All we need from you, Frannie, or your colleagues, is some background, so we can formally say, no, we’re not turning a blind eye to petty crime in the countryside, and yes, we do investigate all reports of suspicious behaviour.’

‘Shit, Elly, I’ve gorra-’

Bliss broke off. Eyes were raised all over the CID room. Must’ve been shouting. Normally he’d be in his own office, but that wasn’t the best place to find out if people were dissecting your private life.

‘If you cobble something together,’ Elly said, ‘I’ll mess around with it, read it back to you, then take it upstairs for clearance. How’s that sound?’

‘Or you could just tell the media that DI Bliss has told Mr Bull to go and-’

‘Now, Francis…’

‘Sorry.’ Bliss lowered his head into Billy Grace’s report: divided trachea, several blood vessels… ‘I’m not gerrin a lorra sleep, Elly. I’ll talk to the DCI, get back to you, all right?’

‘He seems to be an impulsive sort of man, this Mr Bull,’ Elly said.

‘Yeh.’

Bliss had a few of the back-stories on his laptop. THE BLOODING OF PREZZA – Daily Express on the red-paint incident. A Telegraph feature on the saintly Sollers’s battle to defend a thousand-year tradition. Pictures of Sollers in his fox-hunting kit and his ear stud. Bliss looked up and saw that Elly Clatter hadn’t gone away.

‘What?’

‘I’d be a bit a careful, Frannie. You just see him as a man with form, but in hunting circles it’s a medal. Him and that Otis Ferry?’

‘Both members of the Jumped-up Twats Club.’

A moment’s silence. From opposite corners of the CID room, Terry Stagg and Karen Dowell were staring at him.

‘You ever think you might be working in the wrong part of the country, Francis?’ Elly Clatter said.

About half an hour later, Bliss rang Annie Howe at headquarters in Worcester. From his office this time. Door shut, voice lowered. Annie was still only half-available, required to be on hand in case she was recalled to the Crown Court. She’d been quite helpful meanwhile, which was still a whole new experience for Bliss.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘We tried. Either they know nothing or they’re not playing.’

‘Or the translator’s crap,’ Bliss said.

‘She’s actually a very good translator, I’m told.’

It had been Annie’s idea – and not a bad one – to approach the two men facing rustling charges in Evesham, offer them a deal in return for information on who might be lifting stock in Herefordshire. A network couldn’t be ruled out.

‘Both came over as seasonal workers,’ Annie said, ‘but don’t seem to have been at any of the Hereford fruit farms.’

Bliss and Stagg had been over to the Magnis Berries farm first thing. Still a pre-season skeleton staff: local manager, six workers. Everybody living off-site, the whole place locked up all night.

‘Stuffed, then,’ Bliss said. ‘They could’ve come from anywhere… Birmingham… Newport… Gloucester…’

‘Widen the net, then. Talk to West Midlands, Gwent. What about general crime? No pointers there?’

‘Farm thefts are up. Stolen quad bikes, chainsaws. Diesel drained from tanks. Widespread metal-theft. Some organized poaching, but no recent rustling of farm animals, no violence. We’ll keep trying.’

The press conferences had shaken out sightings of two un familiar pickup trucks on private land – one up towards Bredwardine, one seen turning round at Lulham like he was a stranger who hadn’t known it was a dead end. This was the best so far, but still not worth much.

‘Meanwhile,’ Bliss said, ‘Mr Bull is doing interviews.’

‘Talking stable doors? Accusing us of giving rural crime low priority? Don’t react. I mean it, Francis.’

Bliss found himself wondering what Annie was wearing.

‘Where are you tonight?’

‘Jury’s still out, and we’re warned to expect an overnight.’ She was always careful on police phones. ‘Might make it over there before close of play. Failing that, I’ll be home this evening. If you need me for anything.’

‘Home.’

‘Malvern.’

‘Right,’ Bliss said.

The lunchtime TV news had pictures of grey fields, barbed wire and police tape. It said the hunt for the killer of a farmer in the Wye Valley had been stepped up.

What they always said when there was no new line. Bliss switched off. He’d brought Karen Dowell and Terry Stagg into the office, with a pot of tea and a few sandwiches.

‘We’re going to get a hard time over this, aren’t we?’ Terry said.

Sounding almost pleased. Bliss extracted an egg sarnie.

‘But it’s not totally our fault, is it, Tezza? As we’re severely undermanned, underfunded and overburdened with bureaucratic shite. I think we need to quietly point this out to the media.’

‘Quietly, how?’

‘I was thinking you, actually. When you go back out there, I thought you could find out which pub they’re occupying, join them for a butty, exchange a few confidences. You’ve got the look of a boozer, Tez, it’s the veins in your nose. They like that. Maybe you could find out what Sollers is telling them on the side, and what they think of him.’

‘You don’t like Sollers Bull, do you, boss?’ Karen said.

A wholesome country girl, but smart.

‘Karen, what were his relations with Mansel, do you think?’

‘Big old family.’

‘It’s not the frigging Royal family, Karen.’

‘It’s near enough, in this county. You should know, you married into the fringes of… all that.’

Bliss scowled.

‘Sorry,’ Karen said.

‘I was sensing a distance, between Sollers and his brother,’ Bliss said. ‘The way he kept telling me what a well-respected man he was. No conspicuous affection.’

‘With respect, boss, he wouldn’t show that in front of you.’

‘But they weren’t mates. Big age gap. Not exactly grief-stricken, is what I’m saying. And he’s very likely going to inherit a big slab of prime riverside acreage, plus a small mansion. Mansel had no wife left, no kids.’

‘I heard that’s why they’re history,’ Terry said, ‘the wives.’

‘That’s what Billy Grace thought. Mansel wanted an heir to Oldcastle but refused to believe it might be his fault he didn’t get one. Bottom line, looks like Sollers could be in line for most of it. They were partners.’

‘You want to be a bit careful, boss, that’s all,’ Karen said. ‘Under the circumstances.’

‘I’m doing me job.’ Bliss threw up his hands. ‘He’s got form.’ ‘He was nicked for exercising his countryman’s right to protest about what he considered to be an unjust law.’

‘ You think he’s a hero, do you, Karen?’

‘I think he’s clever. University, then business college? Big on diversification – farm shop, restaurant…’

‘We frequent his restaurant, do we?’

‘No, but my mum works there.’ Karen split a Kit Kat. ‘What’s the DCI’s line? Something this big, I keep expecting her to come stalking in, rapping knuckles. But she stays in Worcester. Odd, that.’

‘She’s been in court.’

‘Not over the weekend. I mean, she was here, but not for long.’

Terry Stagg said, ‘Maybe keeping out of the line of fire. Let the DI cop the flack.’

‘Not the only odd thing, when you think about it,’ Karen said, thoughtful. ‘She does that spell as acting-super here and then gets offered Thames Valley, which – unless I’ve got this wrong – would’ve been about six months under a superintendent coming up to retirement. On a promise. Why didn’t she go for that? Not the Howe we know, is it?’

Terry Stagg smiled greasily through his unsightly stubble.

‘Maybe she has other things she wouldn’t want to leave behind.’ Grinned at Bliss. ‘Father’s daughter?’

‘OK,’ Bliss said, ‘let’s just…’

‘That’s crap.’ Karen shaking her head. ‘Even I don’t think she’s bent.’

‘That case…’ Terry brushing crumbs off his tie ‘… maybe she’s finally getting herself seen to.’

Shit. Bliss was looking down at his desk, turning over the forensics, feigning lack of interest, when he heard Karen go, ‘It’s not you, is it?’

His gut went tight as a drum.

His head came up very slowly – a struggle to frame some flip reply, until he saw she was looking at Terry Stagg.

A joke. How many of these frigging jokes could his heart take? He watched Stagg shudder.

‘Why is Karen trying to give me nightmares, boss?’

‘She’s actually not bad-looking,’ Karen said. ‘In her austere way.’

‘Karen…’ Terry Stagg blinked. ‘That woman’s a metal coat hanger with tits. It’d be like, you know, with a plastic doll or something? Staring over your shoulder with glazed eyes. Anyway, nobody’s yet proved to me she’s not a lezzer.’

‘ How many times we been through that?’ Karen said.

‘Does a brilliant impression of a woman who hates men.’

‘Gay women cops, Staggie – man-friendly. Always. Am I right, boss?’

‘Sorry, Karen?’ Bliss tried not to look too concerned either way. ‘I was just wondering how Terry knows so much about having sex with a plastic doll. That was a very telling detail about the way their eyes stare over your shoulder.’

Karen giggled.

‘Sod off,’ Terry Stagg said, going not quite red.

‘Boss.’ Bliss relaxed. As best he could these days.

He stood fingering the loose change and the car keys in his pockets, unhappy about the way Annie Howe’s uncharacteristic professional restraint had been spotted. Had they also noticed how readily she’d trusted him to handle a major inquiry of national interest?

‘Karen?’

On their own now in his office, Terry Stagg heading back to the crime scene.

‘Mmm?’

‘Karen, look, I’m gonna come over all pathetic now. Is there any kind of rumour going round? About me.’

‘What? About being gay?’ Karen grinned, then saw his face. ‘Sorry, boss, I’m not sure what you’re asking me. If you mean Kirsty… a wonky marriage’s hardly got novelty value in this place.’

‘Nothing else? I apologize for sounding girlie.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Well?’

‘Unless I’ve failed to pick up on something, I’d say the pressure of a high-profile murder investigation, combined with your domestic issues, is making you just a bit paranoid.’

‘So nothing?’

‘Nothing. Frannie, I’d know. And if I knew, I’d tell you.’

Should’ve kept his gob shut. She’d be curious now. And Kirsty… Kirsty still knew something. But from whom? Who’d found out about him and Annie and passed it on?

‘Things’ll get better, boss,’ Karen said.

‘Yeh,’ Bliss said, as Gwyn Adamson, office manager on the Mansel inquiry, came over with an envelope.

‘Couple of things, Francis. One’s an eyewitness report from a petrol station at Leominster. Bloke apparently was dropped from a car and then escorted by two men into a four-by-four. As he was getting in, someone pulled a bag over his head.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last Wednesday night. Two nights before Mansel was killed. No indication of duress. Witness thought it was a joke. However this…’ Gwyn handed Bliss the envelope ‘… is more interesting. Came in the lunchtime post, just addressed to Police, Hereford. Could be a crank job, but…’

Bliss accepted a folded sheet of A4. Computer printout.

The word BLOOD all over it.