The Secrets of Pain

60

The tin-roofed lean-to that James Bull-Davies called his study overlooked the stable yard. They could see Alison out there forking sodden straw into a barrow. James’s face was stretched, his washed-out eyes mottled with uncertainty.

‘Normal way of things, this makes very little sense, even you must see that.’

‘Normal way of things,’ Merrily said.

She wouldn’t sit down.

‘Never your favourite word, is it, vicar? Normal.’

Out in the yard, Alison tossed the fork into the barrow. She looked tired.

‘I should be doing that,’ James said. ‘Should’ve been done hours ago, but we had to go into town this morning, see a man about an overdraft. Or a woman, as it turned out.’

‘Things are bad?’

‘Recession, still. People don’t want to burden themselves with extra horses, feed bills, vet bills…’

‘It’ll lift.’

‘My lifetime, you think?’ James frowned, watched Alison wheeling the barrow away. ‘Should’ve made William Lockley clear out his own shit.’

‘May not be his to clear,’ Merrily said. ‘Not all of it.’

She felt the ground becoming marshy. She’d left Lol on the square, in search of Danny and Gomer. Feeling obliged to come here alone.

‘And I know my limitations, James.’

He sat down in the hard chair behind an old oak desk stained with cup marks. Drumming his fingers on a worn blotter.

‘SAS are the finest in the world at what they do. Train, train and train again. And, the pressures being commensurate with the rewards of the job, there’s little doubt that some chaps get drawn into odd byways. But the idea of a cult…’

‘In fairness, much of it seems to have developed after they left the Regiment.’

James grimaced, drew in his chin.

‘This Roman army business… you’re suggesting that’s actually in some way become central to the exercises devised by Jones and Mostyn for their clientele?’

‘Think what people pay to go on Buddhist retreats and stay at ashrams. Add to that a powerful physical regime. And the almost mystical glow that surrounds the SAS.’

‘And this includes the ritual slaughter of animals?’

‘I… believe so. For some participants. The ones considered suitable. And discreet. And able to meet the fees.’

‘An elite?’

‘Belonging to an elite has always been very sexy.’

‘And not really a swindle, I’d guess.’

‘Only in that nobody should have to pay for spiritual knowledge. No, I… I think it almost certainly works. I think it alters them psychologically and in quite dramatic ways. I think there might even…’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Doesn’t matter. But you have to remember we’re looking at something specifically shaped to the military two thousand years ago, when life was cheaper that we can imagine. Which, today, might have some questionable side effects. On some people.’

‘Dangerous, you think.’

‘Very. I think.’

James said. ‘What about Savitch?’

‘That’s all circumstantial. The link is Hardkit, which supplies the equipment and know-how for Savitch’s hunting and paint-balling weekends.’

‘Was at his press launch today. Everything in place, all boxes ticked. Green energy, but also farmer-friendly.’ James craned forward onto his elbows. ‘No right at all to resent that man. My family, what’s left of it, we can’t do anything for the community any more – barely hold ourselves together. But Savitch is… Used to hear him sneering at anything that didn’t fit his ludicrous concept of what country life should be about. Now he smiles tolerantly, witters on wistfully about tradition. Not a sham, as such, he just…’

‘You can’t stand him, can you?’

‘Is it that obvious?’ James looked pale with defeat. ‘But he’s such an insubstantial man that it’s hard to see him getting down and dirty with the likes of Jones and Mostyn.’

‘I don’t think he does. I think that killing, for Savitch, is something done from a safe distance with a twelve-bore and nice gloves. I think he simply passes some clients on to Jones, probably via Mostyn, for a cut. And even then, I suppose, it’s like SAS selection – many won’t go all the way.’

‘And the ones who don’t slink quietly away? Don’t like it, Merrily. Army turns out men. Danger of this creating…?’

‘Monsters.’

‘All right. What’s the bottom line?’

‘That’s where it gets even more speculative.’

‘Then speculate.’

‘I’d much rather go and lie down in a dark room, but…’ Merrily pulled out her cigarettes without the usual request for clearance ‘… it’s just about conceivable, James, that, somewhere along the line, this takes in the killing of your cousin Mansel.’

She lit up, as the legs of James’s wooden chair screeched on the stained flags.

William Lockley was back on the phone within half an hour of James’s call. James just listened, his chin retracted, eyes half-closed.

‘Have to remember Mrs Watkins is not actually in your employ, William,’ he said after a while, then spent some more time listening and then barked, ‘All right, will do,’ and hung up. ‘William conveys his respects, with a polite request for you to pop into Hereford.’

‘Me? I’d’ve thought…’ Merrily had her cigarettes out again. She shut the pack and pushed it back into her bag. ‘Where in Hereford?’

‘Seems Colin Jones is coming into police headquarters in about an hour. Seems that after the events of last night, the police thought it might be a good idea to visit his premises. Jones said he wouldn’t be there today but, as he’d be in Hereford, he’d be happy to call in at Gaol Street. He says he won’t be pressing charges against the man who broke into his premises.’

‘Good to know,’ Merrily said, guarded.

‘Lockley thinks it would be a good idea to make the most of Jones’s presence. In view of what you told me, they’d like you to be there when they talk to him. As a consultant.’

‘They?’

‘William himself and the Senior Investigating Officer. Howe.’

‘Annie Howe asked for me? I don’t think so, James.’ She watched Alison leaning the barrow up against the house wall, then taking off her leather gloves. ‘I expect I’m the one who’ll look stupid if none of this stands up to scrutiny.’

‘That bother you?’

‘If it bothered me, I’d be in a different job.’

She called in at the vicarage to put out dried food for Ethel and check the answering machine. For once, no messages. On the way out, she noticed a brown Jiffy bag propped up against the wall and took it back inside.

The bag contained a large-format, lavishly illustrated hard-back book.

RISKING ALL

The SAS Experience

Another kill-and-tell Regiment memoir. By Trooper Z. There was a sheet of Black Swan headed notepaper, marking a page, Barry’s scrawl across it: More from the Public Sector.

There were just pictures on the marked pages, in colour. One with a pencilled cross against it showed a bunch of smiling guys in T-shirts holding up white mugs. The caption said:

Teatime in Colombia for (L to R) Greg, Syd, Jocko and Nasal.

Various guns were laid out on the parched grass in front of them. Syd was only vaguely recognisable; his teddy bear’s eyes were covered, like all their eyes, with a black rectangle. All dead. All dead now.

Except for Byron, of whom there was no sign.