H for Hay.
Bliss was like, ‘What the f— What’s this?’
Two patrol cars, blues and twos, screeching into the concrete car park behind him.
‘Don’t you recognize him?’ a man said gravely. ‘It’s the King of Hay.’
‘Couldn’t believe it.’ A boy of about sixteen was crouching beside it. ‘We had to get him out, didn’t we?’
He was wearing a pale blue wetsuit. Behind him, another boy, same gear, and two orange canoes pulled up from the river.
‘And you found him where?’ Bliss said.
‘Just by there.’ The wetsuit boy had a Welsh Valleys accent. ‘He was floating, he was, not far from the bank. At first, we thought it was a… you know. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeh,’ Bliss said. ‘You would.’
He bent to hold up the bottom of the scarlet cape to reveal a pair of shapeless, too wide, dark grey trousers and scuffed, black lace-up shoes. He used a pen to lift up the bottom of a trouser leg, flesh colour underneath.
Two uniforms either side of him now.
‘Jesus, boss, that was a scare.’
‘Just a bit odd, Darren. It appears to be the torso of a male dummy from a shop window. But quite an old one. Wooden, in fact. See how the feet are screwed in?’
‘You blokes mind moving back just a bit?’ A guy pushing through, TV camera on his shoulder. ‘That’s fine. Thanks.’
‘Hold it, pal,’ Bliss said. ‘We need to be quite sure about a couple of things.’
The cameraman moved back, shooting Bliss, who recognized the reporter with him, Amanda Patel, from BBC Midlands today.
‘Giss a minute, Mandy.’
‘What is this about, Frannie? We thought—’
‘Yeh, we all thought. It’s a bloody relief.’
Amanda let the cameraman finish recording, from a distance, before turning to the crowd, looking baffled.
‘Can anybody… does anybody know what this is about?’
‘It’s the King of Hay,’ an elderly man said. ‘Someone made a very accurate effigy of the King of Hay, Richard Booth, and sent it floating down the River Wye.’
‘It’s jolly lifelike,’ Amanda said. ‘Scared me for a minute. No, really, is it a leftover from a carnival or something?’
‘We haven’t had a carnival this year. Nor last.’
‘I remember when they were going to execute the King, or something like that, for a publicity stunt. But this… I mean it’s not really the best time for jokes, is it?’
‘You are quite right there,’ the elderly man said.
‘Can’t be the actual crown jewels, can it?’
‘I think you’ll find they’re still in the window of the King of Hay shop in town. But someone’s gone to considerable trouble to create facsimiles. And then throws the whole lot in the river.’
‘Bit sick, if you ask me. We’ve got some shots, in case it ever means anything, but…’ Amanda Patel shook her head. ‘I think I’m going to leave it alone, Frannie. Just looks like bad taste, anyway, with the hunt for Tamsin. And after what happened to that old man at Cusop. Come on, Paul.’ She nodded at Bliss. ‘Thanks, Frannie.’
The cameraman lowered his camera and followed Amanda Patel, who glanced once over her shoulder, looking uncertain. A kid was leaning over the King trying to pull off his crown.
‘Hey!’ Bliss was on his feet. ‘Geroff!’
‘It’s glued on, boss,’ Darren said.
Like the sceptre was to the hand. No wonder nothing had come off in the water.
‘Always factions in Hay,’ the elderly man said. ‘People who support an independent Hay, other people who think Booth’s held up progress by scaring off big business.’
‘Some countries they’d have put out a bleedin’ contract on him.’
An Asian guy in a Mumbai Indians T-shirt, with a bearded man in his thirties who was looking quite amused, prodding the effigy with his trainer.
‘As he isn’t seen here as often as he was, I don’t see the relevance of a public drowning.’
‘Especially not now, when something far more serious is consuming everyone’s attention.’
This was a tall man with a half-moon face that Bliss recognized.
‘Hello, Gwyn. I thought you’d retired.’
‘Don’t rub it in, boy.’
‘What you doing here?’
‘As I have to keep telling everybody, I live here. Bookseller, now. How’s it going, Francis?’
‘Going nowhere fast,’ Bliss said. ‘And this kind of incident doesn’t help.’
He’d worked with Jones a couple of times. Shrewd. Deceptively quiet. Called by both his first names because Gwyn Joneses were ten a penny in Wales. He had that look of loss and longing in his eyes, the look that Bliss was dreading one day seeing in the mirror.