is to relax. But in some situations that’s next to impossible.’
‘In the end she were running out into the churchyard, thinking he were coming after her. Outside, she trips over a grave-kerb. Scrapes her head on the edge of a headstone. Happen slightly concussed when the churchwarden finds her. Takes her home, makes her some tea, wi’ brandy. Story comes out. Next day he goes to the rector. Rector doesn’t bugger about. He consults his local deliverance minister, one Craig Innes—’
‘Just… slow down, Huw.
Was
there something in the church?’
‘Don’t matter, lass. Pretty much the same either way. Imagination, if you want to call it that, can be just as damaging. But if you apply the same balm…’
‘A Requiem Eucharist.’
‘
Exactly.
Either way, Requiem’s likely to work. The rector had the right idea. Best way to get shut of the ole bugger. Send him to his rest, whether it’s the image in the church or Ann’s head. Or both. Give him the full Requiem.’
Merrily nodding.
‘It involves clergy, and a church. What else would you do?’
‘The lad could’ve done it himself. His church, his responsibility. But he wanted a second opinion, and that were the right thing, too. He had the right idea, just went to the wrong man. Innes told the rector he’d deal with it himself. Which he did. He didn’t go to see Ann Evans, he simply phoned her. He phoned her that same night. He gave her his considered advice.’
Merrily sighed, her mental landscape falling into shadow.
‘Go on.’
‘Advised her to go and see her GP,’ Huw said. ‘Wi’ a view to referral to a psychiatrist.’
16
Claw
T HE FACT THAT the ground-floor flat was in a small block only a short walk from the Plascarreg Estate took away a whole level of mystery. From the ill-lit road outside, Bliss could point to the steel-reinforced doors of at least two dope-dealers’ dwellings.
But this was not what dope dealers did.
He got out of there as soon as he could, standing outside the doorway breathing harder than a man of his experience should ever be seen to breathe.
There’d been a small hallway, but one of its walls had been taken out so the front door opened directly into the living room, where there was enough blood for a multiple stabbing. But it wasn’t a stabbing.
Billy Grace, the Home Office Dr Death, had been and gone. Karen Dowell had been here a while with the crime-scene crew, watching everything, inspecting everybody. Karen could get possessive about crime scenes. She joined Bliss outside, pushing back the hood of her Durex suit.
‘OK, boss?’
‘Course I’m OK. We know him?’
‘We do now. But not in the way
you
mean. I don’t think we’re looking at what you might call a Plascarreg neighbour dispute.’
‘We’re not actually on the Plas, are we?’
‘These flats were here before all that was even thought of. I remember them as a kid. Quite bijou at one time but, whensomething like the Plas goes up next door, your property value goes into a steep slide and it all gets a bit scruffy.’
‘Robbery?’
‘Don’t think so. But look…’
Bliss pulled in a quick breath and turned to the room. The body was face down next to a small Shaker-style table. There was a wall-mounted TV and a packed bookcase. All quite tidy in here, in fact, if you ignored the spatter, some of it so liberal that it looked like the furniture itself had been bleeding.
An investigation was assembling around the body with no sadness, only the excitement that cops had become so good at hiding from the public. An excitement, Bliss was thinking, that was only heightened by the horror. Despicable, really. He was forcing himself to look, if only so as not to come over as a wuss in front of Karen, who was famous for taking a bag of chips and a kebab into a post-mortem.
‘While I wouldn’t think robbery as a motive,’ Karen said, ‘I reckon something’s been taken. There’s a printer on the desk, see? But no computer. Where’s the
‘In the end she were running out into the churchyard, thinking he were coming after her. Outside, she trips over a grave-kerb. Scrapes her head on the edge of a headstone. Happen slightly concussed when the churchwarden finds her. Takes her home, makes her some tea, wi’ brandy. Story comes out. Next day he goes to the rector. Rector doesn’t bugger about. He consults his local deliverance minister, one Craig Innes—’
‘Just… slow down, Huw.
Was
there something in the church?’
‘Don’t matter, lass. Pretty much the same either way. Imagination, if you want to call it that, can be just as damaging. But if you apply the same balm…’
‘A Requiem Eucharist.’
‘
Exactly.
Either way, Requiem’s likely to work. The rector had the right idea. Best way to get shut of the ole bugger. Send him to his rest, whether it’s the image in the church or Ann’s head. Or both. Give him the full Requiem.’
Merrily nodding.
‘It involves clergy, and a church. What else would you do?’
‘The lad could’ve done it himself. His church, his responsibility. But he wanted a second opinion, and that were the right thing, too. He had the right idea, just went to the wrong man. Innes told the rector he’d deal with it himself. Which he did. He didn’t go to see Ann Evans, he simply phoned her. He phoned her that same night. He gave her his considered advice.’
Merrily sighed, her mental landscape falling into shadow.
‘Go on.’
‘Advised her to go and see her GP,’ Huw said. ‘Wi’ a view to referral to a psychiatrist.’
16
Claw
T HE FACT THAT the ground-floor flat was in a small block only a short walk from the Plascarreg Estate took away a whole level of mystery. From the ill-lit road outside, Bliss could point to the steel-reinforced doors of at least two dope-dealers’ dwellings.
But this was not what dope dealers did.
He got out of there as soon as he could, standing outside the doorway breathing harder than a man of his experience should ever be seen to breathe.
There’d been a small hallway, but one of its walls had been taken out so the front door opened directly into the living room, where there was enough blood for a multiple stabbing. But it wasn’t a stabbing.
Billy Grace, the Home Office Dr Death, had been and gone. Karen Dowell had been here a while with the crime-scene crew, watching everything, inspecting everybody. Karen could get possessive about crime scenes. She joined Bliss outside, pushing back the hood of her Durex suit.
‘OK, boss?’
‘Course I’m OK. We know him?’
‘We do now. But not in the way
you
mean. I don’t think we’re looking at what you might call a Plascarreg neighbour dispute.’
‘We’re not actually on the Plas, are we?’
‘These flats were here before all that was even thought of. I remember them as a kid. Quite bijou at one time but, whensomething like the Plas goes up next door, your property value goes into a steep slide and it all gets a bit scruffy.’
‘Robbery?’
‘Don’t think so. But look…’
Bliss pulled in a quick breath and turned to the room. The body was face down next to a small Shaker-style table. There was a wall-mounted TV and a packed bookcase. All quite tidy in here, in fact, if you ignored the spatter, some of it so liberal that it looked like the furniture itself had been bleeding.
An investigation was assembling around the body with no sadness, only the excitement that cops had become so good at hiding from the public. An excitement, Bliss was thinking, that was only heightened by the horror. Despicable, really. He was forcing himself to look, if only so as not to come over as a wuss in front of Karen, who was famous for taking a bag of chips and a kebab into a post-mortem.
‘While I wouldn’t think robbery as a motive,’ Karen said, ‘I reckon something’s been taken. There’s a printer on the desk, see? But no computer. Where’s the
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