shop and a big
grey chapel all strung out like damp clothing on a frayed washing line. Here, chunky,
timber-frame cottages were clustered below the old church in a way that seemed
somehow organic, like wild mushrooms in a circle. An image came to Berry of the
cottages pushing themselves up out of the ground, chimney first each one in its
naturally-ordained space.
Weird thought, but kind of
charming. And natural—none of that manicured Cotswold gloss. You went behind
that ochre Cotswold stone and you were in Hampstead. Here . . he didn't know.
For the first time this
weekend, he wished Miranda was here. She'd approve, although she hadn't
approved when he'd said he would not be seeing her that weekend and explained
why. "Morelli," she'd snarled, "as far as I'm concerned you
don't ever need to come back. You can bloody well stay out there with the leeks
and the seaweed bread and the Bibles." Then things had gotten heavy.
"Looks like a nice old pub
too." Berry said, slowing down, wondering where they'd got the stone from
because it seemed to have a more softly-luminous quality than the rocks they'd
passed. Although the soil here seemed lighter too, so maybe . . .
"I've never been in the
pub." said Giles. "I was sort of saving it." Giles was hunched
forward in his bucket seat excited in a proprietorial kind of way, pointing out
this feature and that, the natural amphitheatre of hills, the steps leading up
behind the inn to the churchyard, the path to the river.
Berry eased the Sprite over the
narrow river bridge, the inn directly ahead. Its sign, swinging from a wooden bracket—or
it would have been swinging if there'd been any wind—had a fading picture of
the same church tower they could see jutting out of the hilltop behind. The inn
sign said: Tafarn Y Groesfan.
"Just carry straight on up
the hill, as if you're heading for the church."
Two old men with flat caps and
sticks leaned against the side of the bridge. Berry gave them a wave and, to
his vague surprise, one returned a cheery, gap-toothed smile and the other
raised his stick in greeting.
Giles raised a friendly hand to
the two old men and grinned delightedly. "You see . . . absolutely nothing
like old Winstone's picture of Wales. God rest his soul. Super people here;
everybody you meet has a smile."
Backs to the wall now, the Joneses and the Davieses . . .
Yesterday Berry had been to
Winstone's funeral. The old reporter had gone down into the flames just like he
always said he would and all the hacks had gone back to the last
halfway decent pub in what used to be Fleet Street and drunk, between them,
what Berry figured must have been several gallons of Glenfiddich in memory of
one of the Scottish distillery's most faithful supporters. Giles had been unable
to attend, having been sent to cover a much-heralded speech by Labour's shadow
chancellor at some local government conference in Scarborough. Berry suspected
he was glad to have avoided the occasion. Somebody—Firth or Canavan—would have
been sure to make some discreet reference to Giles's behaviour on the night of
Winstone's death.
Berry could still feel Winstone's
hand on his arm. Stop him.
But this village wasn't
helping.
He'd been hoping for somewhere
grey and grim. Instead, he was charmed. There was a surprising air of
contentment about the place.
The Thorpe funeral had been
conducted by a retired Fleet Street chaplain, the Reverend Peters who'd known
Winstone from way back. In the bar afterwards Berry had bought the old guy a
drink, and it had emerged he was Welsh, from the industrial south east of the
country. This had been a surprise because the Reverend Peters had seemed
seriously English to Berry, hearty and genial and built like Santa Claus with a
matching white heard. He'd laughed when Berry had told him of Winstone's gloomy
warnings. His part of Wales, he'd said, had the warmest, friendliest
grey chapel all strung out like damp clothing on a frayed washing line. Here, chunky,
timber-frame cottages were clustered below the old church in a way that seemed
somehow organic, like wild mushrooms in a circle. An image came to Berry of the
cottages pushing themselves up out of the ground, chimney first each one in its
naturally-ordained space.
Weird thought, but kind of
charming. And natural—none of that manicured Cotswold gloss. You went behind
that ochre Cotswold stone and you were in Hampstead. Here . . he didn't know.
For the first time this
weekend, he wished Miranda was here. She'd approve, although she hadn't
approved when he'd said he would not be seeing her that weekend and explained
why. "Morelli," she'd snarled, "as far as I'm concerned you
don't ever need to come back. You can bloody well stay out there with the leeks
and the seaweed bread and the Bibles." Then things had gotten heavy.
"Looks like a nice old pub
too." Berry said, slowing down, wondering where they'd got the stone from
because it seemed to have a more softly-luminous quality than the rocks they'd
passed. Although the soil here seemed lighter too, so maybe . . .
"I've never been in the
pub." said Giles. "I was sort of saving it." Giles was hunched
forward in his bucket seat excited in a proprietorial kind of way, pointing out
this feature and that, the natural amphitheatre of hills, the steps leading up
behind the inn to the churchyard, the path to the river.
Berry eased the Sprite over the
narrow river bridge, the inn directly ahead. Its sign, swinging from a wooden bracket—or
it would have been swinging if there'd been any wind—had a fading picture of
the same church tower they could see jutting out of the hilltop behind. The inn
sign said: Tafarn Y Groesfan.
"Just carry straight on up
the hill, as if you're heading for the church."
Two old men with flat caps and
sticks leaned against the side of the bridge. Berry gave them a wave and, to
his vague surprise, one returned a cheery, gap-toothed smile and the other
raised his stick in greeting.
Giles raised a friendly hand to
the two old men and grinned delightedly. "You see . . . absolutely nothing
like old Winstone's picture of Wales. God rest his soul. Super people here;
everybody you meet has a smile."
Backs to the wall now, the Joneses and the Davieses . . .
Yesterday Berry had been to
Winstone's funeral. The old reporter had gone down into the flames just like he
always said he would and all the hacks had gone back to the last
halfway decent pub in what used to be Fleet Street and drunk, between them,
what Berry figured must have been several gallons of Glenfiddich in memory of
one of the Scottish distillery's most faithful supporters. Giles had been unable
to attend, having been sent to cover a much-heralded speech by Labour's shadow
chancellor at some local government conference in Scarborough. Berry suspected
he was glad to have avoided the occasion. Somebody—Firth or Canavan—would have
been sure to make some discreet reference to Giles's behaviour on the night of
Winstone's death.
Berry could still feel Winstone's
hand on his arm. Stop him.
But this village wasn't
helping.
He'd been hoping for somewhere
grey and grim. Instead, he was charmed. There was a surprising air of
contentment about the place.
The Thorpe funeral had been
conducted by a retired Fleet Street chaplain, the Reverend Peters who'd known
Winstone from way back. In the bar afterwards Berry had bought the old guy a
drink, and it had emerged he was Welsh, from the industrial south east of the
country. This had been a surprise because the Reverend Peters had seemed
seriously English to Berry, hearty and genial and built like Santa Claus with a
matching white heard. He'd laughed when Berry had told him of Winstone's gloomy
warnings. His part of Wales, he'd said, had the warmest, friendliest
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