“And you’re saying this is Cormac?”
“I’m saying that I’m looking for Cormac Pearl, and that the person who may or not be committing these crimes matches his description. Used to, anyway. He’s got braids in his hair, according to one witness. Another said he wears different coloured contact lenses, somebody else spoke about him being barefoot with green toes. All we know is that somebody is snapping up vulnerable people like a whale with plankton. Camp to camp, festival to festival, always keeping moving. The only thing we know for certain is that he likes people to come to him willingly. He turns their heads. In several cases we’ve seen the same book on the shelves of those who have gone missing. A French book, translated into English. Shamanism: Archaic techniques of Ecstasy. It’s a study of the history of this… well, it’s not exactly a religion – more a way of life.
“Any tangible evidence, sir?” she asks, a note of caution in her voice. “Any actual bodies?”
Millward looks at her like she’s a puppy who’s just learned a trick. “There was a body found beneath the roots of a yew tree in March. Been identified as a travelling musician by the name of Bingo. We’re looking for a proper ID.”
“Cause of death, sir?”
“The pathologist found a small puncture wound right through the breastplate, corresponding with a perforation in the heart. Not a knife. A screwdriver, possibly, but more likely something used by a leatherworker or a carpenter. Do you know the sort of pressure it takes to push a blade through the breastplate? He’s strong.”
Eve nodded, picturing it. “A fight with a rival, sir? I presume it was all very ‘free love’ …,”
“There’s more,” says Millward, looking at her hard. He’s reciting information from memory – reading from the reports he knows word for word. “A young, well-built male, found ploughed into a farmer’s field near Minehead. A small, round-faced girl, no more than 17-years-old, found in a shallow grave in woodland outside of Banwell. A male and female, their bodies dumped at the same time in a marshy area of wetland off the road to Glastonbury. They were buried face to face – the skin fused over time. They were cheek to cheek when they were found. Uncoupling them tore most of the flesh away but it was still clear they were young, and fit. All with the same holes in the heart. All bearing marks of having been associated with what we call a ‘counter-culture’. The same people that we knocked lumps out of at Stonehenge.”
“Why haven’t I read about these cases, sir?”
“You have,” he said. “You’ve probably spotted a line in a national paper about a body found here or an appeal for a missing person there. But you’ve never read another word about it afterwords, I guarantee it. Because these victims, these poor young people – they’re the drop-outs. They’re society‘s throwaway people. “
“And they’re definitely murders? I mean, if the skin was fused then you’re suggesting that he was carrying out these murders while still at school. While still saying with Sixpence …”
“No,” he said, flatly. “Not definitely. Not conclusively. And you’re right to question whether I’m a daft old man who’s made a picture from a few random scraps of paper. They could be suicides. Could be accidents. Could be the victims of all different types of misfortune. But there are enough similarities for me to believe we’re looking for one person.”
“How much of this can you prove, sir?” asked Eve, as a chill raises the hairs upon her arms and the base of her neck. She fights to suppress a shiver.
“Not enough to interest any of my former colleagues,” says Millward, with a flash of regret. “Not enough to get any serving force to take a proper look at this. Not even enough to take it to the press in the hope people will learn to be on their guard. But I know enough to make catching him and stopping him the most important thing in my world. Enough to be able to persuade an old protégé to let an old dog try a few new tricks.”
Eve realises she’s taken a fistful of the bedsheets in her hand. She doesn’t know if she believes him, but she can see that there is something in his eyes, in his manner, that means this is all very real to him. “This family,” she says. “The Pearls. If you found him, what would they do?”
Millward holds her gaze. She realises that the muscle in her cheek is twitching again. She can hear the rain against the glass and the constant shushing of traffic on the nearby road.
Millward seems to make up his mind. Leans forward and lowers his voice.
“I’d let them put him down,” he says, without blinking.
Eve gives a nod.
And a bargain is struck.
21
Rowan feels a little like a giant bumblebee. He’s wearing dark jogging pants along with an Australia rugby jersey, and is reclining in one of the brown wing-back chairs that fan out around a circular, bright yellow table. He doesn’t know if Serendipity planned it this way when she pulled the first two items of clothing she could find out of the laundry pile and insisted he sit in front of the Aga in the kitchen and warm himself up.
He raises his glass, toasting his sister. Saint Serendipity - always willing to blow-dry a drowned rat.
Serendipity has looked after him like she always has, fussing and clucking and doing everything but press her lips to his sore hands and kiss them better. He’s been fed – an acceptable vegetarian lasagne with some ghastly avocado and pumpkin-seed flapjack for afters. Had his glass refilled enough times to make the world a softer, gentler place. His hands have been re-wrapped; the wounds healing well; his hands and fingers more able to move under the new wrappings. Now the drowned sailor who stood on her doorstep two hours ago has been replaced with a slightly healthier version of her younger brother. She keeps smiling at him, looking like she wants to pat his head.
It’s nice here, in Serendipity’s madly-patterned kitchen, at the heart of the large stone farmhouse that Jo has spent a very keenly worked out budget on transforming into a home of distinction. Warm, with the Aga belting out heat. The walls are a mixture of burgundy and teal and the low roof and dark wood beams make him feel as though he’s sitting in some marvellous Victorian tavern, tankard in hand and pipe cupped in a grimy palm. He’s having to squint a little to keep up the charade. Jo is seated at the other end of the kitchen table, a hunched preying mantis with whom his bee is sharing a sunflower.
It doesn’t take long to spoil it for himself. Slowly, inexorably, the doubts wash in. The questions about what is real and what is projection. Does he really believe something has happened Violet or is he just pretending to so he has something to tell his editor and agent? He’s worked this way before – starting with a headline and trying to make the story fit the mould.
“Were you sleeping?” asks Snowdrop, appearing in the doorway. She’s in huge pyjamas and slippers made to look like half-peeled bananas. She looks recently scrubbed, her hair dried and brushed and dried and brushed so that it gleams like wet coal.
“Not at all,” says Rowan, shifting position and smiling. “How are you doing, Scoop?”
“Scoop?” asks Snowdrop, muttering a ‘hello Jo’ to the silent, spindly figure who taps away at a typewriter and puts circles around an expenses sheet at the far end of the table.
“Somebody claim an extra mile on the round-trip to Kent, did they?” asks Rowan, raising his voice and winking at Snowdrop.
Jo, a sleeping lioness, does not look up from her calculations. “We have those odometers fitted for a reason Rowan. If you take a wrong turn, it shouldn’t be the company that pays for your incompetence.”