The Magus of Hay(52)

‘What are you doing here?’



‘I live here. People do. Even old plods.’

‘Hell…’ Robin shaking his head. ‘My apologies. Only, anyone connected with that particular stage of my life…’

‘I can imagine you’d want to wipe us all from your memory. A bad time, boy. You caught the attention of a fanatic in need of a target. My greatest regret that we were unable to put him away for peculiar offences. But when no one will testify… hands are tied.’

Robin recalled Jones in the orthopaedic ward, murmuring questions in his mild, West Wales rumble. Recording all Robin could tell him – not enough, evidently – about the ordained minister who’d aroused hatred against Betty and him while abusing women in the name of God.

‘Where’s he now?’

‘Ellis?’ Jones followed him into the store, arms full of leaking bin liner. ‘Over in your homeland, last I heard.’

‘One good reason never to go back. So you’re out of it, now, huh?’

‘Should’ve gone abroad, boy. Retired to Spain like the criminals. My wife wouldn’t. Too much family. Well, hell, I said, they’ll visit. No good. So I bought a share in a bookshop. Just to feel useful.’

‘It working?’

‘Crime fiction. A popular misconception, it is, that policemen despise it. Why should that be, when the police always win? So… there we are. Serve in my shop two days a week, rest of the time prowl the streets, seeing too much. All very sad, Mr Thoro-good.’ He smiled, clapped Robin gently on the shoulder. ‘Should’ve seen the way things were going with that man, long before we did.’

‘Nobody saw,’ Robin said. ‘Nobody outside of the valley.’

‘In this area, the past is like the ditches… well overgrown and full of rusty old barbed wire.’ Jones was looking around the store. ‘Shop all right for you, is it?’

‘Yeah, it… it’s OK. Gets us started. Just dump them anyplace.’



Gwyn Arthur Jones let down the sack. Murry Hope’s Practical Celtic Magic and Myths and Legends of the North American Indians by Lewis Spence fell out onto the concrete floor.

‘Lot of paperbacks, Mr Thorogood. Unless it’s something like a vintage green Penguin, you can’t make much on paperbacks, I’m finding. Rarely collectors’ items, so people buy the e-books instead.’

‘Well, thanks for those encouraging words.’

‘No, no… you just need more hardbacks. And a reputation for collectors’ items at reasonable prices. Like the cricket boy next door.’

A wave of tiredness washed over Robin.

‘We’re haunting boot sales and charity outlets. Checking out dealers who might pick up books along with furniture in house-clearances.’

‘Well.’ Jones stood with his hands behind his back, looking up at the rubblestone wall above the main shelves. ‘Anytime I can help you, you let me know. All right? With the shop or… anything else?’

Glanced at Robin, like he was waiting for him to speak. Robin dug out a wry smile.

‘I’ve a police pension,’ Jones said, ‘so it’s no more than a diversion for me now, an escape. But I’m thinking it’s serious for you. And your good lady? She’s well?’

‘Sure. Um… I guess it was you told Kapoor. About me and Betty?’

‘When I heard you were taking that shop, I told him I knew you, yes. As well for people to know you were the victims, that’s what I thought. Was that wrong?’

‘No, that’s… thanks.’

‘Remember what I said.’

‘We’re gonna be OK,’ Robin said.

‘Of course,’ Jones said.

* * *



The retired couple from Coventry who came to view the bungalow this morning had been taciturn, appeared incurious. They clearly disliked all the fitted bookshelves, were quietly critical of the garden where Betty grew herbs and Robin struggled to keep the lawn down.

And yet… within an hour of them leaving, the agent was on the phone. They’d made an offer: three thousand less than the asking price. A glow spread through Betty like alcohol. Even Robin had expected to have to come down at least five K.

‘Perhaps you can tell them we’ll think about it,’ she said coolly.

Taciturn and incurious were no bad things, sometimes. Neither of them had asked why a squat, green candle was burning in the window in full daylight.

‘If I’m honest…’ The agent sounding a bit resentful. ‘I doubt you’ll get a better offer.’

‘One of us will get back to you,’ Betty said.

Call it a feeling.

Betty looked over to the window, where the candle was burning low enough, now, to see the jagged end of the front door key embedded in the green wax.