The Man in the Moss

            'But you don't think that now?'

            She shook her head. 'I know her better now. She's too strong. She widny touch drugs - not the kind that might get any kind of hold on her, anyway. I think it's more likely she just rejected the psychic stuff, the way they were fooling about, Max Goff and these guys. She knows what it can do, right? Like, if one person can shoot all the drawers out of a filing cabinet, what's gonny happen wi' four or five of them ... ?'

            'This is fascinating, Fiona.' The kid was smarter than he'd figured. 'You're saying maybe she came back to Scotland to, kind of, put herself in psychic quarantine. Maybe scared of what she could do.'

            'I'm only guessing,' Fiona said, 'but how come she'll no play any of the old songs any more? I think she wants to put all that stuff behind her. But can you do that? Being psychic, I mean, it's no' like a jumper you can take back to Marks and Spencer. Drink your coffee, Mungo, 's gonny get cold.'

            He drank his coffee, not tasting it. He'd been fooling himself that this thing about Moira was purely ... well, more than physical ... romantic, maybe. She was beautiful and intelligent, and he loved her music from way back. But maybe it went deeper. Maybe this was a woman who he'd instinctively known had been closer to ... what? The meaning of things?

            Things that having money and influence and famous friends couldn't let you into?

            Time of life, he thought, staring absently into Fiona's cleavage. Or maybe I really do have Celtic roots.

            'Mungo,' she said. 'Can I ask you something?'

            'Go ahead.' He could guess.

            'All this stuff about a miniseries ...'

            'Kaufmann told you about that?'

            'I keep my ear to the ground.'

            Or the door. He grinned. 'Yeah?'

            'Was that on the level?'

            'You mean, are we gonna go ahead with a film about, uh ...'

            'An American guy who comes over here to trace his roots and ...'

            'OK, OK ...'

            '... falls in love with this beautiful...'

            'Aw, hey,' she said. 'I think that's sweet.'

            'So maybe you'll help me.'

            'How?'

            'Tell me where I find her.'

            'I don't know,' Fiona said. 'Really.'

Part Five

our sheila

From Dawber's Secret Book of Bridelow (unpublished):

The oldest woman in Bridelow commands, as you would expect, considerable respect, as well as a certain affection.

                        Ma Wagstaff? No, I am afraid I refer to Our Sheila who displays her all above the church porch.

                        The so-called Sheelagh na gig (the spelling varies) is found - inexplicably - in the fabric of ancient churches throughout the British Isles: a survival of an older religion, some say, or a warning against heathen excess. Usually it is lazily dismissed as 'some sort of fertility symbol'.

                        The shapes and sizes vary, but the image is the same: a female shamelessly exposing her most private parts.                                 Pornography, I am  glad to say, it isn't. The faces of these ancient icons are normally  grotesque in the extreme, their bodies compressed and ludicrous.

                        Our Sheila, however, is a merry lass with an almost discernible glint in her bulging stone eyes and a grin which is more innocent than lewd.

                        Do not dismiss her as a mere 'fertility symbol'. She has much to say about the true nature of Bridelow.

CHAPTER I

Round about 6.30, Chrissie had got a phone call from the police. Would she mind popping over to the Field Centre?

            When she'd arrived the place was all lights. Police car and a van outside, an unmarked Rover pulling in behind her.

            When the two CID men from the Rover walked across, they looked as if they'd been laughing. Now, facing her across her own desk, they were straight-faced but not exactly grim.

            'I'm Detective Inspector Gary Ashton,' the tall one said. 'This is DS Hawkins' - waving a hand at the chubby one in the anorak. 'Now ... Miss White.'

            'Chrissie,' she said.

            'Lovely: He was a fit-looking bloke, short grey hair and a trenchcoat. Fancy that ... even with policemen, fashion goes in circles.

            'If you've been trying to get hold of Dr Hall,' she said helpfully, 'he went to a funeral, but it should be well over by now.'

            'Thank you. We know,' Ashton said. 'He left early, apparently, and went home. He's on his way. Now, just to get our times right, when exactly did you go home?'

            Oh, sugar, Chrissie thought. 'We finish at four forty-five,' she said.

            Actually she'd left at 4.15. Just before four, Alice had fallen back on the irrefutable - claiming she had one of her migraines coming on. Chrissie had stuck it for fifteen minutes on her own and then thought, sod it, and gone to fetch her coat.

            'Four forty-five,' Ashton said. 'Right.' They could tell when you were lying, couldn't they? If he could, he didn't seem too concerned.

            'Now,' he said. 'You're responsible for locking up, are you?'

            'I do it if there's nobody else. I wouldn't say I'm responsible. There's the caretaker, he comes on at five. And then a private security firm comes round a few times at night ... that's just since he's been here. They were worried there might be a few, you know ... weirdo types, wanting to have a look. Or something. What's happened, then? Has there been a break-in?'

            'So when you left, everything was locked up. What d'you do with the keys?'

            'The front and back door keys we drop off at the caretaker's office at the main college building. The keys to the bogman section ... we keep those in here, I'm afraid. Is that bad? In one of the filing cabinets - but that's always locked at night, of course.'

            If this chap's an inspector, she realised, it's got to be more than just a break-in.

            'And the big doors at the back?'

            'We never open them. Well, only when ... when the bogman arrived in a van. They brought him straight in that way.'

            'Do you go round and check those doors, Chrissie, before you leave? Round the outside, I mean.'

            'Do I buggery,' said Chrissie. 'I'm an office manager, not a flaming night watchman. Look, come on, what's this all about? What's happened?'

            Ashton smiled. 'So you didn't see or hear anything suspicious before you left?'

            'No. Not tonight.' Oops.

            'What d'you mean, not tonight?'