¿ʇǝƃƃnu uǝʞɔıɥɔ ɐ ǝʞıl pǝʞool 'ʇıq ʇɐɥʇ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'poƃ
’˙ɥǝʎ 'ɥǝʎ‘
’—ɥʇǝǝʇ ǝɥʇ puɐ 'pǝddıɹ ɥʇnoɯ puɐ ǝsou ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇno pǝsıɹd uǝǝq ʇsoɯlɐ s’ǝʎǝ ʇɥƃıɹ ǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ ǝǝs‘ ˙pıɐs ɹǝlppıɟ ɯıls ’'pǝuǝdɹɐɥs uǝʌǝ ɹo‘
’˙pǝsn llǝʍ sɐʍ puǝ ʍɐlɔ ǝɥʇ 'ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ʍɐlɔ ɐ sɐʍ ʇı ɟı‘
’˙uǝɹɐʞ 'ʇıʞlooʇ ’uıƃƃıɹɟ ɐ ɥʇıʍ uı ǝɯoɔ ɐuuoƃ ʇou s’ɹǝllıʞ‘
’˙ǝslǝ ƃuıɥʇǝɯos pɐɥ ǝɥ ssǝlun ˙ʇɐɥʇ ɟo ʇsoɯ pıp ʇɐɥʇ ʍɐlɔ ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ʇı puɐ 'looʇ ɹɐlıɯıs ǝɯos ɹo ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ʍɐlɔ ɐ ʇɐ ƃuıʞool ǝq plnoɔ ǝʍ os ˙ǝɹǝɥ ƃuıddıɹ ɟo ʇol ˙ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ʇunlq ɐ ʇsnɾ uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ s’ʇɐɥʇ puɐ 'sʞuıɥʇ ǝɔɐɹƃ ɹp 'spɹɐʍɹǝʇɟɐ ǝuop ʎlqɐqoɹd ˙ɟɟnʇs ʎssǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝsnɐɔǝq ʇunlq ʇɐɥʇ ʇou ʇnq ˙ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ɐ ǝʞıl ƃuıɥʇǝɯos ˙ƃuɐq 'ƃuɐq 'ƃuɐq ˙pɐǝɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ sʍolq ˙pǝllıʞ sɐʍ ǝɥ ʍoɥ s’ʇɐɥʇ 'ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ʇunlq ʎlsnoıʌqo 'llǝʍ‘
‘Cooper. Ran into him the other night.’
‘Tristram Greenaway seems to have been a freelance archaeologist – i.e. jobless – who’d been taken on for a few months to help Cooper until the boss comes back.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Woman in the flat above. Greenaway talked about it. We haven’t talked to Cooper yet. Vaynor’s still trying to track him down.’
Neil Cooper. The lad who had his skull nicked.
‘Perhaps
I’ll
have a word,’ Bliss said, thoughtful. ‘When he surfaces.’
Maybe this wasn’t as simple as the address would lead you to expect.
‘Tell you one thing,’ Karen said. ‘Some murders you can be dispassionate. Or, some of them, you feel nearly as sorry for thekiller as the victim. But this killer… even I don’t feel safe with him out here.’
‘Or her?’
‘No way.’ Karen fiercely shaking her head. ‘Not even a human being any more, Frannie, he’s just… lost it.’
17
Get over it
S INCE L OL WAS last home for any length of time, the council had cut back on public lighting. New shadows had grown like night foliage. The narrow street between Lucy’s old house, where he lived, and the vicarage seemed, in the hours of darkness, like a deep river. Small lights blinked on the other side, on an island between the trees.
Always something to be crossed. Ledwardine, which always looked peaceful, was a cluster of small worlds in torment, the vicarage its unresting conscience.
Like a deep river… island in the trees… worlds in torment…
Lol spun away from the window. Bloody hell, there were days when it seemed like his whole existence had been reduced to scraps of material for possible lyrics. When all he was was something that served songs.
As distinct from Merrily Watkins, who served people and also something else that could seem as distant, amorphous and unapproachable as a cold sun.
She’d phoned earlier to see if it was OK if she came over.
Like she had to
ask
. For God’s
sake
, she had her own key to the house that used to be Lucy’s house. He’d had it made for her. She used it when he was away, to come in and check everything was OK, do a little dusting, pick up his mail from behind the door to see if there was anything crucial. But when he was at home, she almost never used that key; she’d always knock when all he wanted was for her to let herself in, any time of the day or night, be presumptuous, feel free. It wasn’t as if the wholevillage didn’t know. It wasn’t like anybody in Ledwardine sat in judgement or even cared.
He bent to the wood-stove in the ingle. It hadn’t been active for most of the four months he’d been away – relearning how to make a living wage out of music, a summer of small-venue and pub gigs across Britain, indoor busking for people who carried on drinking and talking. Funny how you learned
’˙ɥǝʎ 'ɥǝʎ‘
’—ɥʇǝǝʇ ǝɥʇ puɐ 'pǝddıɹ ɥʇnoɯ puɐ ǝsou ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇno pǝsıɹd uǝǝq ʇsoɯlɐ s’ǝʎǝ ʇɥƃıɹ ǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ ǝǝs‘ ˙pıɐs ɹǝlppıɟ ɯıls ’'pǝuǝdɹɐɥs uǝʌǝ ɹo‘
’˙pǝsn llǝʍ sɐʍ puǝ ʍɐlɔ ǝɥʇ 'ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ʍɐlɔ ɐ sɐʍ ʇı ɟı‘
’˙uǝɹɐʞ 'ʇıʞlooʇ ’uıƃƃıɹɟ ɐ ɥʇıʍ uı ǝɯoɔ ɐuuoƃ ʇou s’ɹǝllıʞ‘
’˙ǝslǝ ƃuıɥʇǝɯos pɐɥ ǝɥ ssǝlun ˙ʇɐɥʇ ɟo ʇsoɯ pıp ʇɐɥʇ ʍɐlɔ ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ʇı puɐ 'looʇ ɹɐlıɯıs ǝɯos ɹo ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ʍɐlɔ ɐ ʇɐ ƃuıʞool ǝq plnoɔ ǝʍ os ˙ǝɹǝɥ ƃuıddıɹ ɟo ʇol ˙ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ʇunlq ɐ ʇsnɾ uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ s’ʇɐɥʇ puɐ 'sʞuıɥʇ ǝɔɐɹƃ ɹp 'spɹɐʍɹǝʇɟɐ ǝuop ʎlqɐqoɹd ˙ɟɟnʇs ʎssǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝsnɐɔǝq ʇunlq ʇɐɥʇ ʇou ʇnq ˙ɹǝɯɯɐɥ ɐ ǝʞıl ƃuıɥʇǝɯos ˙ƃuɐq 'ƃuɐq 'ƃuɐq ˙pɐǝɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ sʍolq ˙pǝllıʞ sɐʍ ǝɥ ʍoɥ s’ʇɐɥʇ 'ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ʇunlq ʎlsnoıʌqo 'llǝʍ‘
‘Cooper. Ran into him the other night.’
‘Tristram Greenaway seems to have been a freelance archaeologist – i.e. jobless – who’d been taken on for a few months to help Cooper until the boss comes back.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Woman in the flat above. Greenaway talked about it. We haven’t talked to Cooper yet. Vaynor’s still trying to track him down.’
Neil Cooper. The lad who had his skull nicked.
‘Perhaps
I’ll
have a word,’ Bliss said, thoughtful. ‘When he surfaces.’
Maybe this wasn’t as simple as the address would lead you to expect.
‘Tell you one thing,’ Karen said. ‘Some murders you can be dispassionate. Or, some of them, you feel nearly as sorry for thekiller as the victim. But this killer… even I don’t feel safe with him out here.’
‘Or her?’
‘No way.’ Karen fiercely shaking her head. ‘Not even a human being any more, Frannie, he’s just… lost it.’
17
Get over it
S INCE L OL WAS last home for any length of time, the council had cut back on public lighting. New shadows had grown like night foliage. The narrow street between Lucy’s old house, where he lived, and the vicarage seemed, in the hours of darkness, like a deep river. Small lights blinked on the other side, on an island between the trees.
Always something to be crossed. Ledwardine, which always looked peaceful, was a cluster of small worlds in torment, the vicarage its unresting conscience.
Like a deep river… island in the trees… worlds in torment…
Lol spun away from the window. Bloody hell, there were days when it seemed like his whole existence had been reduced to scraps of material for possible lyrics. When all he was was something that served songs.
As distinct from Merrily Watkins, who served people and also something else that could seem as distant, amorphous and unapproachable as a cold sun.
She’d phoned earlier to see if it was OK if she came over.
Like she had to
ask
. For God’s
sake
, she had her own key to the house that used to be Lucy’s house. He’d had it made for her. She used it when he was away, to come in and check everything was OK, do a little dusting, pick up his mail from behind the door to see if there was anything crucial. But when he was at home, she almost never used that key; she’d always knock when all he wanted was for her to let herself in, any time of the day or night, be presumptuous, feel free. It wasn’t as if the wholevillage didn’t know. It wasn’t like anybody in Ledwardine sat in judgement or even cared.
He bent to the wood-stove in the ingle. It hadn’t been active for most of the four months he’d been away – relearning how to make a living wage out of music, a summer of small-venue and pub gigs across Britain, indoor busking for people who carried on drinking and talking. Funny how you learned
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