Small Mercies Read online

  Clive’s annoyance was increasing. He was always intolerant of any kind of unpunctuality. If he’d said the meeting would start at twelve thirty, it would start at twelve thirty.

  ‘I think we’d better start,’ Clive said.

  There were only four of them sitting round the table, including Clive and Greg. The other two were newcomers, thankfully, so at least there’d been some point in holding the meeting here. But Clive had expected at least a dozen new members today. The landlord had offered them free use of the function room on the assumption that he’d sell more booze downstairs. That wasn’t a mistake he was likely to make twice.

  The two newcomers were looking understandably nervous and bemused, clearly not knowing quite what to expect. Clive shared some of their anxiety. This had seemed like a good idea when he and Greg had first come up with it. But he still hadn’t really decided how he was going to run the session.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Clive began, recognising a moment too late that no females were present, ‘welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Conspiracy Theory Discussion Group.’

  They’d had extensive debates about that name, too. Greg hadn’t liked it. ‘It makes us sound like fruitcakes,’ he’d said. ‘People who’ll believe in any old bollocks.’

  Clive had been baffled by the objection. ‘We’re not saying we necessarily subscribe to the theories,’ he’d argued. ‘Just that we recognise their existence, and we believe they merit consideration. They’re theories, to be proved or disproved. That’s science.’ He’d said the last word in a tone that implied no further dispute was possible.

  ‘Tonight’s meeting is by way of an introductory session,’ Clive went on, ‘so we’ll cover a wide range of material. I’d like to hear your views on issues or topics you’d like to see discussed.’ He spoke as though addressing a multitude. ‘In future meetings, we’ll focus on one or two pre-agreed specific topics in each session, so that we all have chance to carry out some prior reading or research. I’ll begin each session with a brief introduction on the topic in question and we’ll perhaps ask one of you to prepare a short presentation, and we can proceed from there.’

  The newcomers looked as if they were already beginning to regret their decision to attend. Clive feared that the threat of what might sound suspiciously like homework might dissuade them from returning. But it was important to do these things properly.

  ‘So,’ Clive continued, ‘perhaps we should begin with some introductions. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m Clive Bamford. Author, journalist, broadcaster. Expert on the paranormal.’ Most of that was at least notionally true. A couple of self-published books, a few articles largely for amateur journals, and some appearances on local community radio. Clive was serious about his chosen obsessions. ‘If you’d like to ask me any questions about my background or work, please feel free.’ He paused expectantly, but there was no response. ‘Or we can chat afterwards,’ he added. ‘Greg?’

  ‘Greg Wardle.’ Greg cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I’m just an amateur enthusiast, really. Long-time associate of Clive’s but I don’t claim anything like his level of knowledge. Just here to share ideas and thoughts…’ He trailed off.

  Clive nodded, as if Greg had more than done himself justice. ‘Thanks, Greg. Now, gentlemen…?’

  The two men looked uncomfortably at one another, each clearly hoping the other would speak first. Eventually, they both managed to introduce themselves and say a few words about their own particular interests. It was the usual stuff, Clive thought. 9/11. JFK. The moon landings. The Illuminati.

  ‘All very interesting,’ Clive said, though his expression suggested the opposite. ‘All worthy areas of enquiry.’ He had already decided he should steer them away from some of the more extreme stuff. He knew how easily conspiracy theories could shade into views that were far less palatable. He’d been at too many meetings or conventions where those around him were using coded language to promulgate opinions he found frankly abhorrent. Bloody lizard people, for God’s sake.

  ‘Thank you all for turning out,’ Clive said. ‘I’m sorry we’re a slightly select group today. Obviously the rain has kept a few people indoors—’

  At that moment, as if in illustration of Clive’s words, the door of the function room burst open to reveal two rain-soaked individuals. Clive looked up, his irritation at the interruption immediately replaced by gratification at the appearance of two more attendees.

  The two individuals were a man and a woman. The man was tall and gangling, a mass of greasy black hair falling chaotically across his face. The woman had long, strikingly red hair. She was, Clive noticed almost immediately, really very attractive. Both looked older than anyone already present. Late thirties, Clive thought, or even older.

  The man blinked and looked around the room, his gaze eventually fixing on Clive. His whole appearance suggested disorganisation made flesh, but there was something in the steadiness of his gaze that Clive found oddly unnerving.

  ‘Is this the right place?’ the man asked. ‘Conspiracy theories and all that?’

  Clive looked pointedly at his watch. ‘That’s us. Would you like to come in and join us?’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ The man stumbled his way across to the table. ‘Sorry we’re a bit late. Cats and dogs out there.’

  The woman had followed him into the room. She was carrying two pints of what Clive took to be some variety of stout or porter. She sat herself beside the man, and placed the full glasses on the table between them.

  They’d left the door of the function room open, and Clive could hear the hubbub of chat from the bar below. Without saying anything, he rose, crossed the room and closed the door. As he returned to the table, the man winked an acknowledgement. He was looking at Clive expectantly.

  Clive gave a brief sigh that eloquently expressed his exasperation. ‘We’ve just completed introductions. I’m Clive Bamford. I’m sure you can all get to know each other better when we have a break. You are…?’

  To Clive’s slight surprise, it was the woman who answered. ‘I’m Rowan Wiseman. And this is Charlie.’ It wasn’t clear whether Charlie shared her surname, or whether he simply didn’t have one. He looked like the kind of man who might have mislaid his surname somewhere along the way.

  They were both dressed in leather jackets dotted with an array of unreadable badges, which they wore over the top of black T-shirts and jeans. Charlie’s T-shirt was adorned with a logo but Clive had no idea of its significance.

  ‘Welcome, Rowan and Charlie.’ Clive had risen to the occasion with impressive pomposity. ‘This is our inaugural meeting. Our mission is to discuss all kinds of non-mainstream thinking with open but critical minds—’

  ‘Conspiracy theories.’ It was the second time that Charlie had spoken the phrase. This time it was imbued with undoubted contempt.

  ‘We’ve used that simply as a catch-all term—’

  ‘But it’s a crap term, isn’t it?’ Charlie had the air of someone thinking out loud. He leaned forward over the table and pointed his forefinger at Clive. ‘The kind of language that those shitty TV channels use. “Did aliens walk this earth back in the mists of time?” That sort of bollocks.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘It’s exactly the language the mainstream media use to dismiss this kind of thing, isn’t it? As if only nutters could believe this stuff. I mean, don’t you want to take this seriously?’

  ‘Of course we take it seriously. But we approach each issue with a critical mind. It’s a theory unless and until we can prove otherwise.’

  ‘But you’ve got to discriminate,’ Charlie said. ‘I mean, a lot of it’s clearly garbage. You don’t want to waste your time on that. Focus on the stuff that’s worth finding out about.’

  Clive leaned back in his chair, irritated that his authority was already being undermined. ‘So, in your not so humble opinion, what should we be looking at?’

  Charlie exchanged a glance with Rowan Wiseman. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘just
thinking about what was on your poster, I wouldn’t bother with all that moon-landing crap.’

  ‘With respect—’ Greg began.

  Charlie ignored him. ‘Do you really think that, if there was anything in it, some NASA underling wouldn’t have blown the whistle? It’s been fifty bloody years. 9/11, likewise. You couldn’t do something like that without involving a lot of people. People talk.’

  ‘Okay, so you don’t think we should waste our time on either of those—’ Clive said.

  ‘All the Area 51 stuff, that’s the same. And the flat earth bollocks. What sort of conspiracy would that be? How many people would you need to involve? Why would you even bother?’ Charlie stopped and took a large swallow of his beer. ‘Give me a break.’

  Clive tried again. ‘You’ve been very persuasive in telling us what not to discuss. Do you mind enlightening us as to what is worth talking about?’

  Charlie seemed oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘You should be looking at the real conspiracies. The Illuminati, for example. The Freemasons. The Bilderberg Group. All those,’ Charlie concluded. ‘And there are countless others. Call them what you like, but it amounts to the same thing.’

  Clive nodded, as if giving serious consideration to Charlie’s ideas. Then he said, ‘With respect, though, that stuff’s an even greater load of bollocks, isn’t it?’

  Charlie looked up and stared unblinkingly at Clive. ‘You reckon?’ His tone suggested his next words might well be a suggestion to take this outside.

  Clive was unintimidated. ‘It’s either bollocks or it’s just a truism. We all know that the ultra-rich conspire to stay that way and big business conspires to maximise its profits. None of that’s news. They do it openly. They don’t need any secret groups to make it happen. It’s naive to think otherwise.’ This was an argument Clive could continue all night.

  Charlie smiled. ‘You’re the naive one if you really think that’s the limit of it. What they do in public is the tip of the iceberg. The global conspiracy goes far beyond that.’

  Greg had clearly decided it was time to offer Clive some support. ‘The trouble is that terms like “global conspiracy” often lead to some pretty nasty politics.’

  Charlie turned to face him. ‘What are you accusing me of, son?’

  ‘I-I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just saying that phrases like “global conspiracy” are sometimes coded language. It’s why the far right go on about it all the time.’

  ‘So we should ignore it because it’s not politically correct?’ Charlie said. ‘Even if it turns out to be true.’

  ‘I just think we need to be careful—’

  ‘Careful.’ Charlie almost spat out the word. ‘That’s exactly what they want, isn’t it? Everyone to tiptoe round the subject in case they offend someone.’

  Clive could feel the meeting slipping away from him. ‘I don’t think anyone’s saying that. I’m more than happy for us to add it to our list of topics. But I should make it clear to everyone here that we don’t tolerate any form of racism in the discussions. We need to discuss these topics objectively.’

  ‘Then there are the religions,’ Charlie continued as if Clive hadn’t spoken. ‘We should look at the religions.’

  Clive blinked. His usual authority had deserted him. ‘Religions?’

  ‘The Catholic Church, for one.’ Charlie smiled. ‘That probably wasn’t what you expected me to say, was it?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘The thing is,’ Charlie went on, ‘I take an equal opportunities approach to conspiracies. What’s that term they all use nowadays? An evidence-based methodology. I’m not bigoted or racist. I just follow the facts.’

  ‘As I say,’ Clive responded, ‘we’re open to discussing any of these topics as long as we adhere to the basic standards of the group.’

  ‘That’s excellent.’ Charlie’s tone was that of someone praising a dog for completing a simple trick. ‘Then there are the churches of the left-hand path.’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s an interesting area of enquiry—’ Clive began.

  ‘You mean satanists?’ Greg intervened.

  Charlie redirected his gaze back to Greg. ‘If you want to call them that. Religion that’s about challenging taboos. Societal norms. Some see it as another way of seeking enlightenment. If enlightenment is the right word.’

  Clive took the opportunity to move the discussion back into more familiar territory. ‘All very interesting,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we can find time to focus on that. Perhaps you’d like to put something together by way of an introduction, Charlie?’

  ‘Sure.’ Charlie looked at Rowan Wiseman. ‘We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Ro?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Delighted.’

  ‘Right, then,’ Clive said. ‘Well, is that a good moment for us to take a break? I’ll jot all these ideas down and we can have a chat about what order to take them over the next few weeks.’

  Charlie looked as if he was about to offer some alternative suggestion, but Rowan Wiseman took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear. She looked up at Clive. ‘We’ll go and get another pint. Can we get you one?’

  Clive was genuinely surprised by the offer. ‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks. I’m on the IPA.’

  She nodded, then held up what was left of her stout. ‘We prefer it more on the dark side, as you’ve probably seen.’ She smiled. ‘But good to finally find some kindred spirits.’

  Chapter Four

  As they emerged on to the open moorland, Annie paused and looked back. ‘Sure you’re up to this, Zoe?’

  She knew there was no way Zoe would say anything other than yes. But she felt she ought at least to ask. Annie had seen the expression on Zoe’s face as they’d pulled in off the road, sensed the tension in her body language. She’d worked with the other woman long enough to know this wasn’t straightforward squeamishness.

  Zoe was looking around her as if seeing the landscape for the first time. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit preoccupied, that’s all. Nothing important.’

  The rain had set in overnight and was still falling heavily, whipped by a strong wind from the west. Both women were clad in heavy waterproof jackets, but Annie could already feel the rain seeping into her clothing. ‘Bloody miserable one. Difficult to believe you can see for miles on a clear day.’

  Today, much of the landscape was lost in a haze of mist and rain. Annie could see how the land dropped away across the bleak moorland before them, but she could only imagine the resulting vista of fields and moors and the further dark hills beyond. Chatsworth House would be somewhere to their west, the land around them largely part of the Devonshire estate.

  ‘To be honest, even on a clear day the place gives me the creeps,’ Zoe said.

  Annie had never thought of Zoe as the imaginative type. That was one of her strengths, certainly compared to Annie herself. She was pragmatic, down to earth, pretty much unfazed by anything life might throw at her, up to and including the discovery of a severely mutilated body.

  It was true that, on a day like today, this was a desolate place – just miles of empty, rain-soaked, windswept grassland, potentially concealing God knew what kind of secrets. Then there were the cairns and stone workings that dotted their immediate surroundings. Annie supposed it wouldn’t take much imagination to sense some kind of energy being channelled through this place.

  The crime-scene tents were barely visible through the driving rain and thickening mist. ‘You reckon Tim’ll have a cup of coffee waiting for us?’

  ‘From what I’ve seen of Tim,’ Zoe said, ‘he keeps his coffee flask jealously guarded. I sometimes wonder if it’s just coffee he puts in there.’

  ‘Tim could have any number of secrets. We’d never know.’

  They trudged across the wet grassland towards the tents. Crime scene investigation seemed to grow more thorough and complex with each case, and an incident like this would have had the works thrown at it. They’d been here for the best part of thirty-six hours and weren’t li
kely to be finished yet. As Annie proceeded past the police cordon, a uniformed officer who’d been sheltering in the lee of the tent jumped up as if to demonstrate he hadn’t been dozing on the job. He slowed as he recognised the visitors.

  ‘Afternoon, Robbie,’ Annie said. ‘Couldn’t you have arranged a bit better weather for us?’ She knew PC Robbie Normanton a little from previous jobs, and remembered him as young, bright and enthusiastic. The sort of copper who was likely to progress, assuming that was what he wanted.

  ‘I put in a request for sunshine, but you know how it is,’ Normanton said. ‘You looking for Tim? He’s inside in the dry.’

  ‘Of course he is. That’s why you need to make sergeant, Robbie. Then you could be inside in the dry too.’

  ‘One day.’

  Tim Sturgeon had obviously heard their voices, and his face appeared through the tent flap. ‘Afternoon, ladies. Come to join the fun?’

  ‘As long as you’re having fun, Tim. That’s what matters. Are we safe to come inside?’

  ‘Feel free. The body’s gone and they’re done with all the forensic stuff. I’m still kitted up but only because I get a kick out of wearing a white suit.’

  They followed him into the tent. As Tim had said, the body had been removed and the only sign of its former presence was a dark area of blood staining on the undergrowth. A couple of white-suited CSIs were performing some aspect of their arcane procedures at the far end of the tent, but the main work had obviously now been completed. The senior CSI, a man called Danny Eccles, walked over to join them.

  Annie knew Danny well. In her experience, CSIs tended to fall into two main types. Some were gloomy and lugubrious, their manner suggesting that their minds were haunted by too many dark experiences and thoughts. Others, like Danny, were cheerful and apparently light-hearted. Annie had no idea which was the saner reaction to the job, but she knew which type was easier to work with. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘We’re more or less done. Just taking a few more photos now the body’s out of the way.’

  ‘You still think we’re talking about something ritualistic?’