‘Like an incubus?’
‘Well, you know, it has a clearly human identity. Like, it’s wearing a suit. Oh, Jesus, why am I telling you this stuff when I don’t even know if I believe the half of it?’
‘Because it bothers you. Why does it bother you, Grayle? Who is this woman?’
‘She came on to Marcus. It messed her up, this experience. She thinks she needs Marcus as a kind of spiritual father-figure. Like, she first came into his life years ago, when she was just a kid and he was a teacher at her school and looking for something to believe in, and he believed in her.’
‘And you don’t.’
‘It’s Persephone Callard, Cindy.’
Cindy was silent.
He watched the sea through the window.
‘Well,’ he said at last.
‘Your paths ever cross?’
‘To date, no. I have read of her exploits in the papers, of course, over the years. Indeed, I’ve found myself sympathizing, on more than one occasion. Considering common ground — misfits, outsiders … albeit, in her case, a somewhat privileged outsider …’
‘Gets nearly as much space as you nowadays, huh?’
‘Ha ha. So, am I to understand that this is where the elusive Miss Persephone Callard may now be found?’
‘Castle Farm, in the parish of St Mary’s. You recall the dairy building where Bobby Maiden stayed? He’ll be here too, presently.’
‘Bobby also? A little reunion, then.’
‘Kind of.’ Little Grayle was suddenly sounding terribly down. ‘Cindy, I figured … maybe if you were … like, if your schedule allowed …’
‘But Marcus doesn’t know of this?’
‘I thought if you just kind of turned up, that Marcus would be …’
‘Furious,’ Cindy said.
‘But secretly grateful. Long term.’
Cindy smiled. ‘And the troubled Miss Callard?’
‘What I was hoping is you would probably be able to establish one way or the other. If this was the real thing. You know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, lovely, I think I sense the direction in which you are tentatively travelling. My problem is that I have, as you know, commitments in London …’
‘I’m sorry. I understand. It was stupid of me.’
‘… at least, until tomorrow evening. Would Sunday be soon enough? If I were just passing through, as it were. Staying at the Ram’s Head in St Mary’s, with my dear friend Amy Jenkins?’
‘Oh Cindy …’ almost a sob, this was ‘… I would be so grateful. See, I would hate for Marcus to have to deal with this on his own. He’s been sick, he isn’t as young as he used to be. And he’s getting kind of disillusioned about his own worth, you know?’
A wave of tenderness washed over Cindy. He remembered his first meeting with Grayle, a wan little figure in the bar of the Ram’s Head, searching for her missing sister in a strange place. Exceedingly strange, as it turned out.
‘Well, let me see,’ he said positively. ‘I usually arrive back here quite late on Saturday night, so if I drive up there early in the morning when we are all fresh?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you, Grayle. It will be an intriguing experience. I’m sure. I would relish the opportunity to meet the extraordinary Miss Callard. And to see you again, of course. And Bobby. And … Marcus. A little reunion of what we might call the St Mary’s Circle. Perhaps it is meant to be. Right. I shall see you on Sunday, then.’
‘Well, I might not be here,’ Grayle said, almost brusquely.
‘No?’ Oh. Getting to something. Cindy felt a considerable darkening. ‘And why not?’
‘I may have to go away. I don’t wanna talk about that. Marcus’ll tell you if … if I’m not here.’
‘Grayle …?’
‘I have to go. I see, uh … I see Marcus coming. Bye, Charlie. Thank you.’
Grayle stabbed the end button, stood under the smashed tower, shaking with the knowledge of her own doom. It had come on to rain — mean, squally stuff.
The ominous figure coming towards her wasn’t Marcus, it was Persephone Callard with the hood of her black sweatshirt pulled up. She looked dark and witchy under the jagged walls, and the whole scene sang with foreboding.
‘Grayle, you can’t stand out here like some fugitive.’
‘Fugitive from justice,’ Grayle said miserably. ‘Don’t I know it.’
‘Look,’ Callard said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’ She guided Grayle back to the shelter of the curtain wall. ‘It’s going to be a lot easier if I say it was me.’
‘What?’
‘If I say I did it. I hit the man, I cut him with the knife. I came down and found them and they attacked me and I grabbed the knife from the wall. I was in a state about it afterwards, obviously, and you brought me back here.’
Grayle blinked at her. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because you’re a foreigner and it could be more difficult for you. And I can afford a good lawyer.’ Callard pushed back her hood; her face was dry and calm. ‘Grayle, if you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t done what you did, I don’t know where I’d be now. I don’t know what would have happened to me.’
Grayle shook her head. ‘It’s a generous offer. But no. What if they find the other guy? He’s gonna know it wasn’t you, and then it’ll all be much worse.’
Though she didn’t see how it could be much worse. She felt cold rain on her face, glared bleakly up at the castle walls — this huge defensive stronghold once, but what did it keep out now? Not even the rain which spattered into her eyes. It was a good time to cry.
‘I killed a guy. I’m not gonna run away from that. What I’ll do is I’ll go back with Bobby. We’ll go to the cops in Stroud or someplace. I might get manslaughter, I even have a case for self-defence. Besides …’ She fought for a weak smile and almost got there. ‘I have an excuse. I’m a New Yorker. I was raised in a violent culture.’
XXI
St Mary’s was the last village in England, so close to the border that on some signs the name was given in Welsh, Llanfair-y-fynydd. St Mary’s in the Mountains: the Black Mountains, lumbar vertebrae in the spine of Wales.
Here the mountains
Here the Sky
Here the Earth
Meeting place
HEAR the Earth (THUMP)
Bobby Maiden’s heart began thumping like Cindy’s shamanic drum as Grayle’s Mini went chugging into the main street.
Under the overhanging wooden sign of the Ram’s Head, known as the Tup — domain of Amy Jenkins, glittery, garrulous divorcee from the South Wales valleys. Two cars and a Land-Rover outside the Tup, but no other vehicles on the move and no people about. A marmalade cat strolled along the wet pavement and hopped on to a wall.
That feeling of returning to a spiritual home. Or somebody’s spiritual home; whenever Maiden came back here, it always seemed to be related to death.
Out of the village into pink soil country, up to where the sign said, Capel-y-ffin: mountain road, unfit for heavy vehicles.
Under the tree branches locked across the narrow road like the antlers of fighting stags, the road dipping and the Black Mountains sinking out of sight because they were so close. But you would still feel them there, an underlying dark weight.
Or maybe that was the sombre weight of the crime-scene pictures in his head. The dispassionate police mind having photographed it from many different angles. A file of sickening images to flip through.
And one maverick factor preventing the drawing of conclusions.
When he finally drove between the wings of stone at the entrance to Castle Farm, Maiden allowed himself to start worrying seriously about Grayle and how it was no surprise at all to her that Justin Sharpe was lying dead in his own garage.
She came out alone to meet him, head bowed. A small, hesitant shadow in the darkening yard.