The cold calling, p.31
The Cold Calling, page 31
Cindy looked up. ‘Aggressive enough for it, isn’t he?’
Poured himself a glass of spring water, and Maiden saw how tired he was looking. Up all night too, and he was not so young. There were cracks in the face make-up, the bangles hung from knobbly wrists.
‘Bobby, I asked if you’d seen the face in one of your unfortunate dreams and I don’t think you replied.’
Wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not. Couldn’t remember. I can now.’
H. W. Worthy’s funeral parlour at the bottom of Elham high street. A wreath on a mock grave. A sombre, dark-leaved wreath.
‘You know how you see things from a certain angle, and you sometimes make out a face. Clouds, coals in the fire, knots on the back of a door. I suppose, if you see a face in a wreath, it’s going to look like this.’
Remembering when he saw the face in the wreath, what had happened to take his mind off the grotesque illusion.
You look lost, Bobby …
How good she’d looked in the back of the old Sierra, in the twilight, aglow in her orange sweatsuit, looking so happy to see him. Love-at-first-sight situation. Love at second meeting.
Love.
Life gets complicated, don’t it?
He sat down again. ‘Tell me everything about this bugger.’
And Cindy brought him the letter.
The letter was word-processed in Old English type.
‘Came this morning,’ Cindy said.
‘Stick to the truth, Lewis. Post hasn’t even arrived yet.’
‘It was faxed, Marcus.’
‘I haven’t got a bloody fax!’
‘No, but I have. I brought it in from the car while you were getting what sleep you could manage. And then I telephoned my friend Gareth, from Crucible magazine, and prised him from his bed.’
‘Crucible magazine? What the hell is that?’
‘It’s a pagan periodical with a circulation no doubt approximating to The Phenomenologist’s.’
Marcus scowled. ‘I’m going to make some more tea.’
‘But less credibility among elderly ladies,’ Cindy called after him. ‘Read the letter, Bobby. You’ll notice it begins, somewhat unusually for Crucible, with a polite “Dear Sir.” The more usual term of address being, one imagines, something more on the lines of “Hey, listen, man.”’
Dear Sir,
As a sporadic reader of your publication and other pagan periodicals, I must object to the assumption that those of us who believe ourselves to be more attuned to the living pulse of the earth must automatically be opposed to country sport.
By ‘country sport’, I mean, of course, blood sport. While I deplore the use of the appendage ‘sport’, I can understand why it is applied. By equating the ritual shedding of blood with such pursuits as football and tennis, it gains a certain social respectability in these anaemic times.
An essential element in the physical and spiritual equilibrium of a planet or country is the regular free-flowing of blood, in the open air.
As your readers ought to know, blood is the original creative and materializing medium. It is the physical substance best capable of interpenetrating the planes. It has been used (and sometimes misused) by magicians throughout history to assist in the manifestation of spirits and daemons.
It is also vital for the sustenance of the spirit of the earth. When a fox is killed, after the cumulative energy of the chase, it is a holy moment. The violent spurting of the blood equates with the climactic instant of orgasm. Both the energy and the blood itself are absorbed by the earth and converted to fuel both the planet and the human race.
There are, of course, places upon the surface of the earth where the shedding of blood is most effective. And, for this logical reason, rites of sacrifice were practised by the oldest cultures of the earth. The insistence by many modern pagans that blood sacrifice is unnecessary and ‘barbaric’ is unbelievably stupid and damaging to all that your readers purport to hold dear.
Green is the opposite colour to red, and therefore it follows that these two colours represent the essential friction without which we shall all weaken and perish.
As long as it continues to embrace vegetarianism and oppose the killing of animals in the wild, the so-called ‘green’ movement, and the so-called ‘pagans’ who support it, is a dangerous sham.
Yours faithfully,
The Real Green Man.
‘No signature, no address,’ Cindy said. ‘Gareth’s excuse for not publishing it.’
‘A nutter,’ Maiden said.
‘Oh no, Bobby. Sadly, not a nutter at all. A valid argument, it is, in theory. But hardly, as he implies, one that the blood-sport fraternities would use in defence of their rural pursuits.’
‘OK,’ Maiden said. ‘Let’s get this right. When you first told us about this, you said that some woman argued that when William II was topped in the New Forest, his blood …’
‘Dripped all the way along the road from the sacrificial site in the New Forest to Salisbury Cathedral. According to Margaret Murray, the ultimate fertilizer for the earth because William was, as she put it, the Divine Victim. The god-king.’
‘Human blood being more effective, in this guy’s view …’
‘In the view of every primitive tradition in the world, Bobby.’
‘… than animal blood. So he’s taken to hunting people.’
‘Because he believes the Earth needs it.’
‘Especially with all the threats to traditional blood sports, right?’
‘I think you may have grasped the essential point.’
‘He’s mad,’ Maiden said.
‘No … as I keep saying, he is not. This man is not a conventional psychopath. He even prefers his victims to be people who, according to his philosophy, might well deserve to die. He is a man with a cause. He believes utterly in what he is doing. And he has some rather influential support.’
‘What?’
‘I’d like to show you a videotape on the television. Little Grayle Underhill gave it to me, bless her. We’ll wait for Marcus to return. Be especially receptive to this, he will.’
But when Marcus came in from the kitchen he looked in no mood for TV. He was carrying a radio. He looked no less exhausted than Cindy and a lot more agitated.
‘Maiden, they’re giving your name out.’
‘Who are?’
‘The police. On the radio. Christ, they’re as good as saying you murdered that woman. Say if anyone spots you they shouldn’t approach you. They’re saying you’re bloody well unstable.’
‘They’re not wrong, are they?’ Maiden sighed. Maybe the whole thing was a set-up. He tried to feel angry, but there was no tension in him, only a dark sorrow.
‘Bobby …’ Cindy put down his glass. ‘How long, do you think, before they find out where you are?’
‘Well, they probably suspect I’m still in the area. I don’t know. They’ll lean on Andy, maybe. Hard. So … Best thing is if I just walk into Abergavenny police station and—’
‘No! Sit down. Do you really want to go to prison?’
‘It’d give me a bit of time to think,’ Maiden said heavily. ‘Pending the trial. Pending the appeal.’
‘While this man goes on killing?’
Maiden sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe.’
‘We need you, Bobby. Look at us, Marcus and me … old men. An end-of-the-pier embarrassment and the editor of an excuse for a magazine dying slowly and ignominiously. Pathetic, we are.’
‘Bastard,’ Marcus muttered.
XXXVIII
‘I, uh, I have a confession,’ Grayle said.
They were through Hereford, headed for the Malvern Hills. Adrian Fraser-Hale had his long legs stretched out, the passenger seat pushed back as far as it would go. He beamed.
‘You’re going to tell me you’re not really a journalist, your name isn’t Turner and in fact you’re Ersula Underhill’s sister. Am I right?’
Grayle damn near hurled the car into the hedge.
‘Hey, calm down, old girl.’ Adrian folded his hands behind his head. ‘Roger found out. He was bound to, you know.’
‘Oh Jesus.’ Grayle slowed down. ‘He talked to, uh, Marcus Bacton, right?’
‘You’re joking. Roger absolutely can’t stand Marcus Bacton. No, when you’d gone yesterday, he put in a call to the New York Courier. Roger is terribly paranoid. He thinks other academics are trying to steal his ideas or hijack his TV programme. The more powerful people seem, the more insecure they are. So anyone who shows up at Cefn-y-bedd, he wants to know who exactly they are and what connections they might have.’
‘Pretty stupid of me,’ Grayle said.
‘Anyway, the Courier said they didn’t have a Grayle Turner but they’d recently parted company with a Grayle Underhill. Wasn’t awfully hard to put two and two together.’
‘He’s mad at me, right?’
‘I suspect he isn’t terribly pleased, to be honest. He’ll get over it.’ Adrian grinned. ‘At least it means I won’t have to watch what I’m saying any more.’
‘The reason I didn’t just come and say who I was, I had a feeling of … well, of maybe something going on between Roger and Ersula. People told me all this stuff about what a ladies’ man he was.’
Adrian chuckled.
‘Well,’ Grayle said, ‘if she’d, like, got hurt – and I mean, when it comes to men, being this kind of hard-assed intellectual isn’t … you know what I’m saying?’
‘Actually, yes. One always had the feeling that behind that cool façade she was really a terribly vulnerable girl. I’m an old-fashioned sort of chap and a bit of a sucker for a lady in distress and … Well, you know, what can one say? I did rather fancy her myself. I’m afraid.’
That amiable buffoon, Adrian Fraser-Hale…
Oh, Jeez, poor Adrian.
‘Although it pretty soon became apparent that I wasn’t, you know, quite … shall we say, cerebral enough … to compete.’
‘With Roger?’
‘Roger.’ Adrian grimaced. ‘He really is such a frightful bastard.’
The Great Pyramid.
Well, a great pyramid. The one arranged in steps. All pyramids looked the same to Bobby Maiden, except this one, with the steps.
Roger Falconer was halfway up, vaguely listening to a short guy with a beard, who was having to breathe so hard to keep up with him that it was taking the edge off the theory he was airing. Falconer would listen to his companion’s stuff, with an occasional nod, and then do this expression that was nearer to a lopsided smile than a sneer but you got the idea, before sliding in some piece of superior knowledge like a stiletto, leaving the short guy spluttering.
‘Wrong episode,’ Cindy said. ‘Flick it forward half an hour.’
‘As we won’t see the end,’ Maiden said, ‘who wins?’
The phone rang. ‘Ignore it,’ Cindy said.
‘The little chap has a heart attack.’ Marcus reached for the phone. ‘But Falconer has to finish his piece to camera before calling for an ambulance, and so he dies. I’d better get it.’
‘Might be the police,’ Cindy said.
‘Better we know about it than they just show up here with their Armalites or whatever they’re sending the buggers out with these days.’ Marcus snatched the receiver. ‘Yes? Oh … Anderson.’
Oh God, Maiden thought. Really should have tried to call her at the hospital. She’ll have heard it on the radio, seen it on TV. Or someone will. Be all round the General by now.
‘… yes, I know that,’ Marcus was saying. ‘Absolutely not … If the bastard’s saying that, it’s a put-up job. Tell him where he can stick it … No, he’s all right, he … What name? … Right … No, don’t. Don’t worry … Yes, call me tonight.’
Marcus put down the phone.
‘Just reassure me that she was calling from the hospital,’ Maiden said.
‘Who’s this bastard Riggs?’
‘I told you about him.’
‘Oh, he’s the one. He’s been to see Anderson. Told her it’s an open-and-shut case and they need to put you away for your own good, that sort of thing.’
‘She tell him anything?’
‘Of course not. Solid as a rock, Anderson.’
‘And she was at the hospital?’
‘No, he came to her home. She waited for half an hour or so after he’d gone and then she went to a phone box.’
Maiden moaned.
‘For heaven’s sake, Maiden, they can’t tap every bloody phone box in the town.’
‘No. But what they can do is keep an eye on her. If she’s seen to enter a phone box at, say, nine-fifteen, they obtain from our friends at British Telecom a computer print-out of the numbers dialled from that particular box around that time.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How long before they get this address?’
‘I may not stay for lunch.’
‘Better get the hell out now then, hadn’t you?’
‘But not before we watch the video.’ Cindy picked up the remote control.
‘Video? Are you mad, Lewis? Sorry, bloody stupid question.’
‘It’s a video little Grayle was given. Of Professor Falconer’s programme.’
‘Lewis, I wouldn’t watch that shit if the only alternative was The Generation Game. ‘
‘Sit down, Marcus.’
Maiden looked over at the window and then at the clock. ‘May be advisable to fast-forward where you can.’
‘But, like, hold on … I thought you were buddies … OK, coming at it from different directions, pretending to despise each other’s approach, but it’s all good-natured banter.’
‘That’s just for the punters,’ Adrian said. ‘Roger and I really don’t have much to do with each other. Don’t have much in common.’
‘But you live—’
‘I live in a bedsit over the stables. Roger lives in the house. When he’s here. Which isn’t actually that often. He can only stand so much of the countryside. He likes dinner parties, that sort of thing. Also, he’s very much of his generation. Sometimes smokes marijuana.’
Grayle stifled a laugh; he sounded so disapproving. Hard to believe England was still manufacturing men like this.
We just sort of need each other,’ Adrian said. ‘He needs someone who can get on with people and knows all about earth-mysteries, but isn’t otherwise terribly bright.’
‘Oh, Adrian!’
Well, it’s true. I come from a long line of solid chaps who are not terribly bright, but pretty practical. I’m a useful guy to have around. Turn my hand to most things. I rigged out the Portakabins, laid Rogers’s helicopter pad. Things like that.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘It’s a way of earning my keep when there’s no course on. You see I need him, too. Who else would employ someone to take parties on outward-bound trips to ancient sites and supervise dreaming experiments, lie in stone circles all night with a tape recorder?’
‘You love it, don’t you?’
‘It’s my whole life,’ Adrian said. ‘I put up with Roger, for as long as it’s necessary.’
‘You said he was a bastard.’
‘He uses people. He’s unscrupulous. I don’t think there’s anyone he wouldn’t use – or anything he wouldn’t do – to put himself ahead of the field. His field. He has to be, you know, pre-eminent in his field.’
‘Archaeology?’
‘Bigger than that now, his field. Embraces anthropology, psychology and the more acceptable areas of parapsychology. He’s like one of these wealthy farmers who pulls out ancient hedges to develop this huge, private enclosure.’
‘Sounds almost scary. Megalomania.’
‘It’s OK,’ Adrian said. ‘It helps if you know how you’re being used.’
* * *
The wind is blowing Roger Falconer’s hair into his eyes as the camera tracks him to the summit of the small hill, not much more than a bulge in the middle of a green field.
Falconer turns to camera.
‘This Bronze Age round barrow is known, for no satisfactory reason, as Jed Balkin’s Mump. Whoever Jed Balkin was, the farmer who has to plough this field rather wishes he’d stuck his Mump somewhere else. But why did those prehistoric surveyors choose to put it here? Well. If we look to the west …’
The camera, following his pointing finger, goes into a zoom.
‘… we can see the tower of St Anne’s Church. Which, as we noted earlier, appears to have been built on another prehistoric burial mound. And if we look east …’
Falconer, back in the picture, spins round, the same arm outstretched like a signpost.
‘… we can see a small wood. Now …’
Close up on professional smile.
‘If I were some species of spring-heeled sprite … and I were to take a mighty leap in a dead straight line …’
Falconer braces himself.
‘… into the very centre of that wood …’
The screen fills with sky; Falconer’s voice-over.
‘… where do you think …’
A racing blur of greenery.
‘… I would land?’
The picture jolting and then settling on Falconer standing in the centre of a circle of small, stubby stones, enclosed by trees.
‘This is the Ninestones Circle – although, as you can see, there are only seven left. It’s a key feature of what even I have to admit is one of the more credible of thousands of alleged “ley lines” connecting ancient sites all over Britain. Our New Age friends would claim that this invisible line marks a flow of terrestrial energy across the landscape. The life-force of the Earth. If they’re right, I should be getting a stiff shot of the stuff through my system at this very moment.’
Falconer bending down to place his hands over a stone no more than two feet tall, smiling the kind of smile that says precisely what he thinks of this New Age garbage.
Close up.
‘To the New Agers, Stone Age and Bronze Age person was a wise and civilized soul, very much into peace and love and celestial harmony. He or she would probably have sat where I’m sitting now, meditating and being at one with nature.’
Falconer stands up.
‘Sheer nonsense, of course. The New Agers have reinvented the Stone Agers in their own image. In reality, words like “peace” and “love” would have meant nothing to these people. The key word for them would have been … “survival”.’
Poured himself a glass of spring water, and Maiden saw how tired he was looking. Up all night too, and he was not so young. There were cracks in the face make-up, the bangles hung from knobbly wrists.
‘Bobby, I asked if you’d seen the face in one of your unfortunate dreams and I don’t think you replied.’
Wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not. Couldn’t remember. I can now.’
H. W. Worthy’s funeral parlour at the bottom of Elham high street. A wreath on a mock grave. A sombre, dark-leaved wreath.
‘You know how you see things from a certain angle, and you sometimes make out a face. Clouds, coals in the fire, knots on the back of a door. I suppose, if you see a face in a wreath, it’s going to look like this.’
Remembering when he saw the face in the wreath, what had happened to take his mind off the grotesque illusion.
You look lost, Bobby …
How good she’d looked in the back of the old Sierra, in the twilight, aglow in her orange sweatsuit, looking so happy to see him. Love-at-first-sight situation. Love at second meeting.
Love.
Life gets complicated, don’t it?
He sat down again. ‘Tell me everything about this bugger.’
And Cindy brought him the letter.
The letter was word-processed in Old English type.
‘Came this morning,’ Cindy said.
‘Stick to the truth, Lewis. Post hasn’t even arrived yet.’
‘It was faxed, Marcus.’
‘I haven’t got a bloody fax!’
‘No, but I have. I brought it in from the car while you were getting what sleep you could manage. And then I telephoned my friend Gareth, from Crucible magazine, and prised him from his bed.’
‘Crucible magazine? What the hell is that?’
‘It’s a pagan periodical with a circulation no doubt approximating to The Phenomenologist’s.’
Marcus scowled. ‘I’m going to make some more tea.’
‘But less credibility among elderly ladies,’ Cindy called after him. ‘Read the letter, Bobby. You’ll notice it begins, somewhat unusually for Crucible, with a polite “Dear Sir.” The more usual term of address being, one imagines, something more on the lines of “Hey, listen, man.”’
Dear Sir,
As a sporadic reader of your publication and other pagan periodicals, I must object to the assumption that those of us who believe ourselves to be more attuned to the living pulse of the earth must automatically be opposed to country sport.
By ‘country sport’, I mean, of course, blood sport. While I deplore the use of the appendage ‘sport’, I can understand why it is applied. By equating the ritual shedding of blood with such pursuits as football and tennis, it gains a certain social respectability in these anaemic times.
An essential element in the physical and spiritual equilibrium of a planet or country is the regular free-flowing of blood, in the open air.
As your readers ought to know, blood is the original creative and materializing medium. It is the physical substance best capable of interpenetrating the planes. It has been used (and sometimes misused) by magicians throughout history to assist in the manifestation of spirits and daemons.
It is also vital for the sustenance of the spirit of the earth. When a fox is killed, after the cumulative energy of the chase, it is a holy moment. The violent spurting of the blood equates with the climactic instant of orgasm. Both the energy and the blood itself are absorbed by the earth and converted to fuel both the planet and the human race.
There are, of course, places upon the surface of the earth where the shedding of blood is most effective. And, for this logical reason, rites of sacrifice were practised by the oldest cultures of the earth. The insistence by many modern pagans that blood sacrifice is unnecessary and ‘barbaric’ is unbelievably stupid and damaging to all that your readers purport to hold dear.
Green is the opposite colour to red, and therefore it follows that these two colours represent the essential friction without which we shall all weaken and perish.
As long as it continues to embrace vegetarianism and oppose the killing of animals in the wild, the so-called ‘green’ movement, and the so-called ‘pagans’ who support it, is a dangerous sham.
Yours faithfully,
The Real Green Man.
‘No signature, no address,’ Cindy said. ‘Gareth’s excuse for not publishing it.’
‘A nutter,’ Maiden said.
‘Oh no, Bobby. Sadly, not a nutter at all. A valid argument, it is, in theory. But hardly, as he implies, one that the blood-sport fraternities would use in defence of their rural pursuits.’
‘OK,’ Maiden said. ‘Let’s get this right. When you first told us about this, you said that some woman argued that when William II was topped in the New Forest, his blood …’
‘Dripped all the way along the road from the sacrificial site in the New Forest to Salisbury Cathedral. According to Margaret Murray, the ultimate fertilizer for the earth because William was, as she put it, the Divine Victim. The god-king.’
‘Human blood being more effective, in this guy’s view …’
‘In the view of every primitive tradition in the world, Bobby.’
‘… than animal blood. So he’s taken to hunting people.’
‘Because he believes the Earth needs it.’
‘Especially with all the threats to traditional blood sports, right?’
‘I think you may have grasped the essential point.’
‘He’s mad,’ Maiden said.
‘No … as I keep saying, he is not. This man is not a conventional psychopath. He even prefers his victims to be people who, according to his philosophy, might well deserve to die. He is a man with a cause. He believes utterly in what he is doing. And he has some rather influential support.’
‘What?’
‘I’d like to show you a videotape on the television. Little Grayle Underhill gave it to me, bless her. We’ll wait for Marcus to return. Be especially receptive to this, he will.’
But when Marcus came in from the kitchen he looked in no mood for TV. He was carrying a radio. He looked no less exhausted than Cindy and a lot more agitated.
‘Maiden, they’re giving your name out.’
‘Who are?’
‘The police. On the radio. Christ, they’re as good as saying you murdered that woman. Say if anyone spots you they shouldn’t approach you. They’re saying you’re bloody well unstable.’
‘They’re not wrong, are they?’ Maiden sighed. Maybe the whole thing was a set-up. He tried to feel angry, but there was no tension in him, only a dark sorrow.
‘Bobby …’ Cindy put down his glass. ‘How long, do you think, before they find out where you are?’
‘Well, they probably suspect I’m still in the area. I don’t know. They’ll lean on Andy, maybe. Hard. So … Best thing is if I just walk into Abergavenny police station and—’
‘No! Sit down. Do you really want to go to prison?’
‘It’d give me a bit of time to think,’ Maiden said heavily. ‘Pending the trial. Pending the appeal.’
‘While this man goes on killing?’
Maiden sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe.’
‘We need you, Bobby. Look at us, Marcus and me … old men. An end-of-the-pier embarrassment and the editor of an excuse for a magazine dying slowly and ignominiously. Pathetic, we are.’
‘Bastard,’ Marcus muttered.
XXXVIII
‘I, uh, I have a confession,’ Grayle said.
They were through Hereford, headed for the Malvern Hills. Adrian Fraser-Hale had his long legs stretched out, the passenger seat pushed back as far as it would go. He beamed.
‘You’re going to tell me you’re not really a journalist, your name isn’t Turner and in fact you’re Ersula Underhill’s sister. Am I right?’
Grayle damn near hurled the car into the hedge.
‘Hey, calm down, old girl.’ Adrian folded his hands behind his head. ‘Roger found out. He was bound to, you know.’
‘Oh Jesus.’ Grayle slowed down. ‘He talked to, uh, Marcus Bacton, right?’
‘You’re joking. Roger absolutely can’t stand Marcus Bacton. No, when you’d gone yesterday, he put in a call to the New York Courier. Roger is terribly paranoid. He thinks other academics are trying to steal his ideas or hijack his TV programme. The more powerful people seem, the more insecure they are. So anyone who shows up at Cefn-y-bedd, he wants to know who exactly they are and what connections they might have.’
‘Pretty stupid of me,’ Grayle said.
‘Anyway, the Courier said they didn’t have a Grayle Turner but they’d recently parted company with a Grayle Underhill. Wasn’t awfully hard to put two and two together.’
‘He’s mad at me, right?’
‘I suspect he isn’t terribly pleased, to be honest. He’ll get over it.’ Adrian grinned. ‘At least it means I won’t have to watch what I’m saying any more.’
‘The reason I didn’t just come and say who I was, I had a feeling of … well, of maybe something going on between Roger and Ersula. People told me all this stuff about what a ladies’ man he was.’
Adrian chuckled.
‘Well,’ Grayle said, ‘if she’d, like, got hurt – and I mean, when it comes to men, being this kind of hard-assed intellectual isn’t … you know what I’m saying?’
‘Actually, yes. One always had the feeling that behind that cool façade she was really a terribly vulnerable girl. I’m an old-fashioned sort of chap and a bit of a sucker for a lady in distress and … Well, you know, what can one say? I did rather fancy her myself. I’m afraid.’
That amiable buffoon, Adrian Fraser-Hale…
Oh, Jeez, poor Adrian.
‘Although it pretty soon became apparent that I wasn’t, you know, quite … shall we say, cerebral enough … to compete.’
‘With Roger?’
‘Roger.’ Adrian grimaced. ‘He really is such a frightful bastard.’
The Great Pyramid.
Well, a great pyramid. The one arranged in steps. All pyramids looked the same to Bobby Maiden, except this one, with the steps.
Roger Falconer was halfway up, vaguely listening to a short guy with a beard, who was having to breathe so hard to keep up with him that it was taking the edge off the theory he was airing. Falconer would listen to his companion’s stuff, with an occasional nod, and then do this expression that was nearer to a lopsided smile than a sneer but you got the idea, before sliding in some piece of superior knowledge like a stiletto, leaving the short guy spluttering.
‘Wrong episode,’ Cindy said. ‘Flick it forward half an hour.’
‘As we won’t see the end,’ Maiden said, ‘who wins?’
The phone rang. ‘Ignore it,’ Cindy said.
‘The little chap has a heart attack.’ Marcus reached for the phone. ‘But Falconer has to finish his piece to camera before calling for an ambulance, and so he dies. I’d better get it.’
‘Might be the police,’ Cindy said.
‘Better we know about it than they just show up here with their Armalites or whatever they’re sending the buggers out with these days.’ Marcus snatched the receiver. ‘Yes? Oh … Anderson.’
Oh God, Maiden thought. Really should have tried to call her at the hospital. She’ll have heard it on the radio, seen it on TV. Or someone will. Be all round the General by now.
‘… yes, I know that,’ Marcus was saying. ‘Absolutely not … If the bastard’s saying that, it’s a put-up job. Tell him where he can stick it … No, he’s all right, he … What name? … Right … No, don’t. Don’t worry … Yes, call me tonight.’
Marcus put down the phone.
‘Just reassure me that she was calling from the hospital,’ Maiden said.
‘Who’s this bastard Riggs?’
‘I told you about him.’
‘Oh, he’s the one. He’s been to see Anderson. Told her it’s an open-and-shut case and they need to put you away for your own good, that sort of thing.’
‘She tell him anything?’
‘Of course not. Solid as a rock, Anderson.’
‘And she was at the hospital?’
‘No, he came to her home. She waited for half an hour or so after he’d gone and then she went to a phone box.’
Maiden moaned.
‘For heaven’s sake, Maiden, they can’t tap every bloody phone box in the town.’
‘No. But what they can do is keep an eye on her. If she’s seen to enter a phone box at, say, nine-fifteen, they obtain from our friends at British Telecom a computer print-out of the numbers dialled from that particular box around that time.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How long before they get this address?’
‘I may not stay for lunch.’
‘Better get the hell out now then, hadn’t you?’
‘But not before we watch the video.’ Cindy picked up the remote control.
‘Video? Are you mad, Lewis? Sorry, bloody stupid question.’
‘It’s a video little Grayle was given. Of Professor Falconer’s programme.’
‘Lewis, I wouldn’t watch that shit if the only alternative was The Generation Game. ‘
‘Sit down, Marcus.’
Maiden looked over at the window and then at the clock. ‘May be advisable to fast-forward where you can.’
‘But, like, hold on … I thought you were buddies … OK, coming at it from different directions, pretending to despise each other’s approach, but it’s all good-natured banter.’
‘That’s just for the punters,’ Adrian said. ‘Roger and I really don’t have much to do with each other. Don’t have much in common.’
‘But you live—’
‘I live in a bedsit over the stables. Roger lives in the house. When he’s here. Which isn’t actually that often. He can only stand so much of the countryside. He likes dinner parties, that sort of thing. Also, he’s very much of his generation. Sometimes smokes marijuana.’
Grayle stifled a laugh; he sounded so disapproving. Hard to believe England was still manufacturing men like this.
We just sort of need each other,’ Adrian said. ‘He needs someone who can get on with people and knows all about earth-mysteries, but isn’t otherwise terribly bright.’
‘Oh, Adrian!’
Well, it’s true. I come from a long line of solid chaps who are not terribly bright, but pretty practical. I’m a useful guy to have around. Turn my hand to most things. I rigged out the Portakabins, laid Rogers’s helicopter pad. Things like that.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘It’s a way of earning my keep when there’s no course on. You see I need him, too. Who else would employ someone to take parties on outward-bound trips to ancient sites and supervise dreaming experiments, lie in stone circles all night with a tape recorder?’
‘You love it, don’t you?’
‘It’s my whole life,’ Adrian said. ‘I put up with Roger, for as long as it’s necessary.’
‘You said he was a bastard.’
‘He uses people. He’s unscrupulous. I don’t think there’s anyone he wouldn’t use – or anything he wouldn’t do – to put himself ahead of the field. His field. He has to be, you know, pre-eminent in his field.’
‘Archaeology?’
‘Bigger than that now, his field. Embraces anthropology, psychology and the more acceptable areas of parapsychology. He’s like one of these wealthy farmers who pulls out ancient hedges to develop this huge, private enclosure.’
‘Sounds almost scary. Megalomania.’
‘It’s OK,’ Adrian said. ‘It helps if you know how you’re being used.’
* * *
The wind is blowing Roger Falconer’s hair into his eyes as the camera tracks him to the summit of the small hill, not much more than a bulge in the middle of a green field.
Falconer turns to camera.
‘This Bronze Age round barrow is known, for no satisfactory reason, as Jed Balkin’s Mump. Whoever Jed Balkin was, the farmer who has to plough this field rather wishes he’d stuck his Mump somewhere else. But why did those prehistoric surveyors choose to put it here? Well. If we look to the west …’
The camera, following his pointing finger, goes into a zoom.
‘… we can see the tower of St Anne’s Church. Which, as we noted earlier, appears to have been built on another prehistoric burial mound. And if we look east …’
Falconer, back in the picture, spins round, the same arm outstretched like a signpost.
‘… we can see a small wood. Now …’
Close up on professional smile.
‘If I were some species of spring-heeled sprite … and I were to take a mighty leap in a dead straight line …’
Falconer braces himself.
‘… into the very centre of that wood …’
The screen fills with sky; Falconer’s voice-over.
‘… where do you think …’
A racing blur of greenery.
‘… I would land?’
The picture jolting and then settling on Falconer standing in the centre of a circle of small, stubby stones, enclosed by trees.
‘This is the Ninestones Circle – although, as you can see, there are only seven left. It’s a key feature of what even I have to admit is one of the more credible of thousands of alleged “ley lines” connecting ancient sites all over Britain. Our New Age friends would claim that this invisible line marks a flow of terrestrial energy across the landscape. The life-force of the Earth. If they’re right, I should be getting a stiff shot of the stuff through my system at this very moment.’
Falconer bending down to place his hands over a stone no more than two feet tall, smiling the kind of smile that says precisely what he thinks of this New Age garbage.
Close up.
‘To the New Agers, Stone Age and Bronze Age person was a wise and civilized soul, very much into peace and love and celestial harmony. He or she would probably have sat where I’m sitting now, meditating and being at one with nature.’
Falconer stands up.
‘Sheer nonsense, of course. The New Agers have reinvented the Stone Agers in their own image. In reality, words like “peace” and “love” would have meant nothing to these people. The key word for them would have been … “survival”.’
