have we spent the last ten minutes—?’
‘Because I think that’s what Howe was hoping. That she could hang it on Mrs A. Because . . . what’s the alternative?’
‘Ayling’s council work?’
‘Which is sensitive. Which is why Annie’s here.’
‘Because of Charlie?’
‘Now wouldn’t it be lovely . . .’ Bliss beamed ‘. . . if Clement Ayling was killed by Charlie Howe?’
‘You jest, right?’
‘Regrettably, I probably do, but Charlie’s always gorra lot to hide, and Annie knows that. And if we start poking into council business, who knows what might else be uncovered? If Charlie goes down for
any
small indiscretion, where does that leave Annie’s glittering career?’
‘And, as Annie probably knows, that wouldn’t totally break your heart, would it, Frannie?’
‘I’m saying nothing until my lawyer gets here,’ Bliss said.
‘So you think Annie Howe’s stepped in – taken over – to steer the investigation away from anything close to Charlie? I mean . . . how close
is
it to Charlie?’
‘All right, here’s the scenario,’ Bliss said. ‘Ayling leaves a meeting of this think-tank committee, Hereforward, held at the Green Dragon at around three-thirty p.m., just before it starts to go dark. Home is a five-minute walk across the Cathedral Green. He never makes it.’
‘So he was killed soon after leaving the meeting?’
‘Or taken, anyway. Somebody – perhaps, considering the size of him, more than one person – got to him between the Green Dragon and Castle Street. Maybe he got into a car. Maybe he had something to follow up from the meeting, went off with somebody.’
‘Is Charlie Howe—?’
‘Yeh, Charlie’s on that committee. In fact, I’ve just fixed up to meet one of the Hereforward officials tomorrow, find out what they were discussing. Ayling might’ve made himself unpopular over some issue – you never know, do you?’
‘So Ayling could’ve actually been attacked on the Cathedral Green itself?’
‘Possible,’ Bliss said. ‘But unlikely. Too many people about. But he must’ve been
taken
somewhere, that’s the point. Somewhere . . . his head is removed, the body disposed of.’
‘But why was the head then taken to Blackfriars?’
‘You tell me. I gather you know a bit about religion.’
‘Bit before my time, pre-Reformation monasteries.’
‘It’s a public place,’ Bliss said. ‘But not so public that installing a favourite councillor’s head would attract a cheering crowd. Even in the daytime, people don’t go in that garden. It doesn’t lead anywhere – there’s a great tall fence round it. It’s not like the Cathedral Green, a short cut to all kinds of places. Blackfriars, after dark, you could position your trophy without being disturbed.’
‘Trophy?’
‘I think so.’
‘The way medieval heads were displayed? Traitors and turncoats?’
‘Making a point,’ Bliss said.
‘And that point
is
. . .?’
Bliss shrugged.
‘It’s an age of extremes. Lorra anger in this county at the moment, Merrily. Anger at a Government that doesn’t give a shit for rural areas. Anger at the council because it gets squeezed by the Government and pushes council tax through the roof, goes for easy cash cuts.’
‘Wholesale school closures?’
‘All carried out, of course, on the advice of senior officials. Career rats, with no attachment to the area, and most councillors don’t have the brains to argue. But they’re the ones who take the shite. Frustration boiling over into rage across the city and the fields and orchards of this once-glorious county. Or hasn’t it penetrated to leafy Ledwardine?’
‘Are you kidding?’
Bliss was right. If rage was smoke, this inherently laid-back county would have suffocated. But it was a big step from cursing the local authority in the pub to hunting down and killing a senior member, decapitating him, putting his head up like a trophy.
‘Or maybe some individual has had a particularly bad time
‘Because I think that’s what Howe was hoping. That she could hang it on Mrs A. Because . . . what’s the alternative?’
‘Ayling’s council work?’
‘Which is sensitive. Which is why Annie’s here.’
‘Because of Charlie?’
‘Now wouldn’t it be lovely . . .’ Bliss beamed ‘. . . if Clement Ayling was killed by Charlie Howe?’
‘You jest, right?’
‘Regrettably, I probably do, but Charlie’s always gorra lot to hide, and Annie knows that. And if we start poking into council business, who knows what might else be uncovered? If Charlie goes down for
any
small indiscretion, where does that leave Annie’s glittering career?’
‘And, as Annie probably knows, that wouldn’t totally break your heart, would it, Frannie?’
‘I’m saying nothing until my lawyer gets here,’ Bliss said.
‘So you think Annie Howe’s stepped in – taken over – to steer the investigation away from anything close to Charlie? I mean . . . how close
is
it to Charlie?’
‘All right, here’s the scenario,’ Bliss said. ‘Ayling leaves a meeting of this think-tank committee, Hereforward, held at the Green Dragon at around three-thirty p.m., just before it starts to go dark. Home is a five-minute walk across the Cathedral Green. He never makes it.’
‘So he was killed soon after leaving the meeting?’
‘Or taken, anyway. Somebody – perhaps, considering the size of him, more than one person – got to him between the Green Dragon and Castle Street. Maybe he got into a car. Maybe he had something to follow up from the meeting, went off with somebody.’
‘Is Charlie Howe—?’
‘Yeh, Charlie’s on that committee. In fact, I’ve just fixed up to meet one of the Hereforward officials tomorrow, find out what they were discussing. Ayling might’ve made himself unpopular over some issue – you never know, do you?’
‘So Ayling could’ve actually been attacked on the Cathedral Green itself?’
‘Possible,’ Bliss said. ‘But unlikely. Too many people about. But he must’ve been
taken
somewhere, that’s the point. Somewhere . . . his head is removed, the body disposed of.’
‘But why was the head then taken to Blackfriars?’
‘You tell me. I gather you know a bit about religion.’
‘Bit before my time, pre-Reformation monasteries.’
‘It’s a public place,’ Bliss said. ‘But not so public that installing a favourite councillor’s head would attract a cheering crowd. Even in the daytime, people don’t go in that garden. It doesn’t lead anywhere – there’s a great tall fence round it. It’s not like the Cathedral Green, a short cut to all kinds of places. Blackfriars, after dark, you could position your trophy without being disturbed.’
‘Trophy?’
‘I think so.’
‘The way medieval heads were displayed? Traitors and turncoats?’
‘Making a point,’ Bliss said.
‘And that point
is
. . .?’
Bliss shrugged.
‘It’s an age of extremes. Lorra anger in this county at the moment, Merrily. Anger at a Government that doesn’t give a shit for rural areas. Anger at the council because it gets squeezed by the Government and pushes council tax through the roof, goes for easy cash cuts.’
‘Wholesale school closures?’
‘All carried out, of course, on the advice of senior officials. Career rats, with no attachment to the area, and most councillors don’t have the brains to argue. But they’re the ones who take the shite. Frustration boiling over into rage across the city and the fields and orchards of this once-glorious county. Or hasn’t it penetrated to leafy Ledwardine?’
‘Are you kidding?’
Bliss was right. If rage was smoke, this inherently laid-back county would have suffocated. But it was a big step from cursing the local authority in the pub to hunting down and killing a senior member, decapitating him, putting his head up like a trophy.
‘Or maybe some individual has had a particularly bad time
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