The Magus of Hay(59)

‘You’d doubtless find it fun.’ Annie sat down on the sofa, loosening her pale blond hair. ‘I don’t. Can we light a fire?’

‘It’s June, Annie.’

‘Who’d guess?’



This well-concealed domestic side of Annie, he liked that. He found kindling and a copy of the Hereford Times and got down on his hands and knees on the hearthrug.

Annie said, ‘Do I understand from that phone call that you’re pursuing the drowning on an extra-mural basis?’

‘Actually I’m not. Not now.’ Bliss put a match to the paper. ‘Nor had I instructed Tamsin to pursue it.’

‘And you’d given her no reason to think that if she happened to come up with anything it would be gratefully received?’

He looked up at her. She was in jeans and the striped sweater he loved because she’d been wearing it on the electric winter’s night. A little crumpled now, and he loved it even more.

‘You’re saying you think I led her astray?’

‘Not deliberately.’

The kindling caught and crackled. Bliss spread out a few lumps of coal from the scuttle.

‘She told me she had her eye on CID.’

‘And I expect you told her you’d do what you could.’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘In your current condition, that might be the next best thing to a promise.’

‘She’s not daft.’

‘How old?’

‘Twenty-one, twenty-two.’

‘There you go. A young copper with the faint possibility of a murder on her doorstep. She knows she wouldn’t be playing much of a part in the investigation if there was ever a need for one, but she’s thinking what’s it going to do to her CID prospects if she’s missed something under her nose. That didn’t occur to you?’

Bliss hefted the scuttle and slung the rest of the coal on to the flames, Annie wafting coaldust away from her face.

‘How long’s she been missing?’

‘She’s not missing, she just hasn’t rung her mum. Let’s not over-react. When’re you coming back to Gaol Street?’



‘Keep telling you, I don’t want to come back. I don’t want to be your boss any more. Can you understand that?’

Bliss sighed. Strangely, it didn’t matter to him that she was his superior and probably always would be. Could never see himself getting higher than DI, though he could see her making ACC or better. But it didn’t matter, and that surprised him.

‘What might she be looking into?’ Annie said. ‘I mean, if she wanted to come up with something that would impress you.’

‘Annie, she’s in the back of some young farmer’s Land Rover. She’s just using me as an excuse for staying out late.’

‘You don’t know that, though, do you?’

‘All right. It’s conceivable she might be looking to identify possibly the last person to communicate with Rector. A woman, aged about thirty-five who was delivering his groceries. And possibly his dope.’

‘His dealer?’

‘I’d be more inclined to think somebody who deals with a dealer on his behalf.’

‘All I’m saying is, if cannabis found in the home of a man of ninety-odd was enough to make you think there might’ve been something untoward… well, who knows how her mind’s working?’

‘She’d’ve told me.’

‘Maybe she wasn’t sure. Just the way you weren’t sure about what was happening on the Plascarreg, until—’

‘All right!’

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘Nobody. Well, apart from Mrs Watkins.’

He saw Annie’s head go back against the sofa, eyelids coming down, lips tightening.

‘The forensic priest. And she comes into this… how?’

‘As a consultant,’ he said.

‘Oh, a consultant.’

‘I needed an expert opinion on whether Peter Rector was involved in anything iffy. Tamsin said the local kids, of whom she was one not that long ago, thought he was some kind of wizard. Their word. Harry Potter generation. Maybe somebody saw his library, which involves a huge and expensive collection of occult books. And some erotic drawings.’

‘You only told me about the cannabis.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be impressed with the library. There were apparently gatherings at his place involving people the kids liked to call his coven. So I was thinking unbalanced people, maybe doing more serious drugs or hung up on some crank cult thing. I’m thinking what if it involves anybody… underage? I was thinking individuals who, for some arcane reason, might want to drop him in a pool.’