But as she climbed, a tree and its reaching branches grew in towards the hole in the roof, filling it as she ascended, its pungent leaves brushing against her face, its twigs harsh against her skin. She fought and pushed through until the crow took flight, its warning caws caught and scattered by the wind.
A man stood on the edge of the roof looking down into the fields beyond. When she craned her neck, standing on the top rung of the ladder, she saw the field and in it a figure next to a huge cauldron with thick, oily steam billowing up. The figure held something in his hand with which to stir, something white and long with bulbous ends.
At the edge of the roof, the man, her father, stood with his back to her.
‘Look, Anna. All you need to do is look.’
She hesitated, crept forwards onto the rickety slates, heard them creak and crack beneath her. The man on the edge had thicker hands, a bigger frame, less hair than her father. She stood, unsure, unsafe as he began to turn and reveal himself for the imposter he was. The imposter who’d enticed her up above the world to see. The same large shape as the figure in the field below…
* * *
She half-woke, the face not seen, the last of the dream beating in time with her racing heart. The digital read-out on the bedside clock was her link to reality. 4.57 a.m., grey light leeching into the day.
The man on the roof was who she needed to find. Or was it Shaw leading her on?
There was still time for rest, but peace had flown with the crow. She lay there, half in and half out of consciousness, her mind bouncing like a pinball against the bumpers of worry. Untangled knots of her professional life presented themselves for intrusive inspection. The mock-up model of Rosie Dawson in that rucksack, folded and mute. Woakes, a capricious thorn; Hawley, damaged goods.
She emerged into full awareness as traffic noises began to intrude from the earliest risers. From the park, birds erupted into full song to greet the dawn, a dog somewhere barked at a squirrel or a cat.
When the sun arced around to lance through a gap in the curtains, Anna got up.
Thirty-Three
Friday
He’d had to work late on Thursday evening. Still, by hanging around he knew he’d create a good impression and that the feedback to head office would be favourable. But today was Friday.
Today he had something very special planned.
He dressed for work as normal. He usually met the neighbours on a school run. They’d expect him to be smart. Suit grey, shirt white, tie plaid, shoes black, polished. He was in no rush. He planned to be in the city by 9 a.m.
Before he left, he went back to his workshop and removed something from a drawer. It had its own space, wrapped in a soft cloth. He placed it on the bench and carefully pulled back the cloth to let it fall open. It revealed a single, startlingly white, bone. A human ulna. The first and only one that he had ever kept. It was beautiful and, under his fingers, smooth yet contoured where the muscles and tendons had once attached so elegantly.
He nodded. This was his affirmation. Slowly, reverently, he wrapped up the bone and placed it back in its drawer.
He drove to a McDonalds, bought coffee and a McMuffin and sat going over everything in his mind. He’d repacked the boot of his car with all the equipment: the nylon rope, duct tape, the large rucksack, placed on one side, careful to leave enough space for something else. He put the roll of plastic sheeting along with the digital SLR in its box and the video equipment on the back seat.
There was half an hour to kill before heading towards his one and only stop in Bristol. One of the guys down the pub had told him about a place he could buy what he wanted.
‘Cost you,’ he’d said. ‘Big market for them in Asia, apparently. Take whatever they can get.’
He was prepared to pay. No pain, no gain, as his dad used to say sometimes. And always when he used his belt.
He had his phone in a holder on the dashboard. He removed it now and smiled as he scrolled through the replies to his posting on the forum. Thirty so far after the image of Blair in her well hole. Two offering 3 bitcoins each for post-mortem images. One asking for something else very specific. That one for 5 bitcoins. There were other boards where a lot of interest had been shown but no actual money offered. There was always a market for images and video and so it paid to advertise. But Bopeepers knew what they wanted and you needed a proven cryptocurrency account to gain access. The administrator demanded a token transfer as proof of wealth. This way everyone knew they were dealing with no time-wasters.
He quickly totted up the pre-orders: 11 bitcoins. At today’s valuations that was a great deal of money.
At half eight, he set off, the radio playing a Chris Rea track, ‘Sweet Summer Day’. He smiled. He appreciated the poetry of it. It felt like the gods were with him. Above, scattered high clouds in sculpted shapes framed the sky to the east. Behind them the air was clear and crystal.
Commuters choked the roads. He followed the river in, took the feeder road to Small Street in St Phillips. He negotiated Chapel Street, took a few lefts and then a right to a unit next to another breaker’s yard. It was little more than a large lock-up, a distribution unit in an industrial block next to a plastics manufacturer. Three vans outside. He parked and went in through the front door. A man in a white coat was busy loading trays of ice-filled palettes onto a dolly ready for transfer to a van.
‘Help you?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Friend of mine said you might have some eels?’
The man looked over his shoulder at his car. A black Renault Megan. ‘Sorry, mate, eels are protected species.’
‘Look, I’m not from environmental health or DEFRA or whatever. My dad used to cook eels unskinned. I heard you might have some. I wanted to surprise someone with them. Special occasion.’
‘Sometimes we do get some. Accidental, mind. We throw them back as a rule.’
A shrug. ‘Oh well. I’d be willing to pay, but…’
He turned for the door.
‘Tenner each,’ said the man.
He turned back, grinning. ‘I’ll take two. I’ve got a bucket.’
‘Try roasting them with a bit of garlic and rosemary,’ the man said and winked.
He put them in the well of the front seat, lid on so the water wouldn’t spill, and the eels couldn’t get out. Two of them, writhing and wriggling in the confined space. They’d continue to do that for hours even after you cut their heads off.
One of his father’s farming friends once told him of how unscrupulous dealers at horse fairs used to feague the animals to make them look livelier. One method was to put a live eel in them – and not through their mouths. He’d never forgotten that. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but their constantly writhing natures, like snakes, made them unattractive creatures. Slithering and slimy.
Not many people liked them close up where they could wriggle and twist against your skin. There was something elemental in that abhorrence. He smiled. Most people would run a mile rather than touch one.
He was counting on that.
Thirty-Four
Anna met Hawley in the car park of the Gordano motorway services at a little after nine on Friday morning. It was already warm and the stagnant air held a ripe aroma of stale food and diesel fumes that made Anna glad she’d already eaten. Hawley had declined her offer of parking at HQ. She hadn’t argued the point; he would have to pay once his two free hours of parking in the service station were up.
He was standing in front of the Waitrose sign dressed in skinny chinos, an open-neck shirt and a lightweight jacket. Over his shoulder hung a well-used document bag. He held a takeaway coffee cup in each hand. He looked strong and fit and Anna was left wondering where those two adjectives came from and why they’d sprung into her head.
She pulled up and he got in.
‘You know there’s a charge here after two hours.’
‘I’ll pay by phone. How long do you think we’ll be?’
‘An hour to get there; assume an hour there and another to get back.’