The dog makes straight for them, teeth bared. Ruth presses Kate against her shoulder and tries to think of everything she’s ever heard about pit bulls. They go for the throat, when they bite you they never let you go, if you run they chase you . . . She turns, shielding Kate with her body, trying not to think about that woman in France who had her face bitten off. Then she is aware that Cathbad is lying on the grass next to her. Oh God, the devil dog is savaging Cathbad. What should she do? She can’t put Kate down and, anyway, how can she fight off a trained killer, maddened by the smell of blood? Then she realises that Cathbad is, in fact, embracing the devil dog, pulling its ears, even kissing it between its wide-apart eyes.
‘Hello, Thing. How are you, boy? There’s a good dog.’
‘Dog,’ comes Kate’s muffled voice.
‘Yes,’ says Ruth, ‘dog.’
The man with the gun is now running towards them though he has, mercifully, lowered his weapon.
‘Cathbad? Is that you?’
Cathbad gets to his feet. ‘Call this a welcome, Pendragon, you miserable sod.’
Pendragon puts the gun on the grass and, with almost a sob, rushes forward to embrace Cathbad. The two men stand, entwined, as the dog frolics around them. Cathbad is tall but Pendragon is even taller, a huge Father Christmas of a man, dressed in a dirty army pullover and jeans. His beard reaches to his waist and snow-white hair cascades down his back. The dog is also white, with a pinkish snout and merry, dark eyes. He comes over now to investigate Ruth.
‘Want dog,’ says Kate, but Ruth doesn’t put her down. She still can’t forget stories about these dogs savaging children and, besides, there is a lethal weapon a few feet away.
Pendragon finally releases Cathbad and wipes his eyes on his jumper.
‘Pen,’ says Cathbad, ‘I’d like you to meet some friends of mine, Ruth and Kate.’
To Ruth’s surprise, she too gets a hug, Pendragon wrapping his arms with ease around both her and Kate. He smells of wood smoke.
‘Welcome,’ he says. ‘Welcome to my hearth.’
Cathbad makes an odd little bow in return. ‘What’s with the firearms?’ he asks.
Pendragon strides over to the gun and picks it up. ‘Airgun,’ he says, ‘not loaded.’
‘Natives not friendly then?’
‘It’s a long story,’ says Pendragon. ‘Come inside. I’ll make some herbal tea.’
The cottage is low-ceilinged with bumpy, plaster walls. Pendragon has to stoop to cross the threshold, which makes him look like an adult in a child’s playhouse. The door opens onto the main room, which smells of herbs and smoke. There is a huge fireplace with little iron seats on either side, a wooden settle and what Ruth instantly recognises as a version of Cathbad’s wizard’s chair. When she makes her urgent trip to the loo, she notices shells hanging from the roof like one of Cathbad’s dream-catchers. Druid interior decorating.
When she returns, Kate is playing happily with a pile of little wooden dolls. As Ruth enters the room, she hears Cathbad saying, ‘. . . not my child, not biologically anyhow.’ Clearly druids are not immune to nosiness. The white dog is sitting next to Kate, tail wagging noisily on the wooden floor. Pendragon sees Ruth’s glance.
‘Bull terriers are actually very good with children,’ he says. ‘They used to be known as nanny dogs.’
That’s not what the headlines say, thinks Ruth, but the dog does seem amiable enough. He had a jolly, piratical look with a black patch over one eye. She pats him and he leans against her, panting.
Pendragon makes herbal tea that tastes of wood shavings. He also offers home-made bread and butter. Despite having eaten a burger for lunch, Ruth tucks in. She thinks she could get to like it in Dame Alice’s Cottage. It’s certainly very cosy in the main room with the oil lamps lit and the rain outside. The fire is smouldering gently and the dog is now sleeping in front of it, paws twitching.
‘What’s his name?’ asks Ruth, indicating the dog. She heard Cathbad refer to it as Thing, which is typical. It’s rare for Cathbad to call any creature by their given name. He usually refers to Kate as Hecate and has been known to call Ruth ‘Ruthie’, an appellation which only Erik was allowed to use.
But Pendragon’s answer surprises her. ‘He’s called Thing,’ he says with a grin. ‘Shall I tell you why?’
Cathbad smiles as if he knows the answer and Pendragon assumes his storyteller’s pose, leaning back in the wizard’s chair, eyes half shut.
‘Four hundred years ago,’ he says, ‘this house was owned by a wise woman. Her name was Alice Barley, Dame Alice. She was the person you went to if you needed a spell to make your sick child well or to help your wife conceive. She was full of ancient wisdom and lore. For many years she helped the people in these hills.’ He looks at the three faces turned towards him, even Kate is listening intently. ‘But as time went on, people turned against her. There was some dispute about land. One family in particular had a grudge against Alice. They went to the magistrate and claimed that Alice had put a spell on their child, who subsequently died. They said that Alice boasted that she had a familiar—a Thing—who did her bidding. They said that Alice did not take Communion at the church; she saved the holy bread for her Thing. It was said that the Thing could take the form of a dog or a human man. It was said that Alice lay with the Thing and that she suckled it—its teeth, it was claimed, had left a mark on her belly. The Devil’s mark. Alice was accused of witchcraft. She refused to defend herself, saying only that the Great Mother would protect her. Those words probably signed her death warrant. She was hanged the next day.’
There is a silence. The dog—Thing—moans in his sleep.
‘So you called your dog after Dame Alice’s familiar?’ says Ruth.
‘Yes.’ Pendragon leans over to pat the animal’s head. ‘He’s my familiar, my companion.’
‘Do you see Dame Alice?’ asks Cathbad in a matter-of-fact voice, just as if he’s asking if he sees the postman.
‘No,’ says Pendragon, rather regretfully. ‘I don’t see her but I feel her presence. Sometimes I leave gifts for her—hops, apples, corn dollies. The offerings are always gone in the morning. Sometimes I smell her herbal infusions. Once, when I was troubled with headaches, I went and lay in what had been her herb garden. I slept the night there, and when I woke the headache had gone, never to return.’
And you had rheumatism instead, thinks Ruth. As for the apples and corn dollies, she suspects the local fox. There’s a fox in her garden in Norfolk that steals her wellingtons if she leaves them out on the back step.
‘Thing sees her, I think,’ says Pendragon. ‘Sometimes he’ll look up, staring straight past me, tail wagging in recognition.’
Despite herself, Ruth shivers. She looks at the sleeping dog who, thankfully, does not look up, ears pricked, to greet his ghostly mistress.
‘So, why the gun?’ asks Cathbad, helping himself to another hunk of bread. ‘You seemed pretty scared when we arrived.’
‘It’s a long story,’ Pendragon says again. But, unlike the Dame Alice story, this does not seem to be a tale he is inclined to tell. Instead he drops down on his knees next to Kate. ‘Do you like those dolls, Kate?’ He looks up at Ruth. ‘I found them in the house, under one of the floorboards. I think they belonged to Dame Alice. One of the stories told against her was that she made wooden effigies of her enemies and then burnt them.’
Ruth looks at her daughter playing happily on the floor with the voodoo dolls. Next to her, the devil dog sleeps on.
‘Harry Nelson!’
The large man behind the desk gets up, arms outstretched. The two men don’t actually embrace—the desk is in the way for one thing—but they exchange a hearty handshake.
‘Sandy Macleod! How long has it been?’
‘Too long. But you don’t look a day older.’
‘I feel a hundred years older,’ says Nelson, sinking into a chair. It feels wrong to be this side of the desk but it’s great to be with Blackpool CID again. Bonny Street Station hasn’t changed a bit: there’s still the blue light outside the door, still the rather grim Victorian brickwork, still what looks like the same graffiti outside, ‘Pigs Go Home’. Sandy himself, though balder and fatter, looks much the same. He has a lugubrious, rubbery face, like an old-style music-hall comedian. Nelson remembers that it was always hard to know whether Sandy was joking or not.
‘How’s the countryside treating you?’ he says now, sending a WPC out to make tea with an admirable lack of political correctness. (‘Make us a cuppa, there’s a good lass’.)
‘I’ve had a tough couple of years,’ says Nelson, thinking that this is an understatement. Child abduction, murder, a serial killer, not to mention the mess of his personal life. But Sandy looks quite admiring as he says, ‘You’ve had a few high-profile cases.’
‘God save me from high-profile cases. My boss loves press conferences. Just hearing the word Crimewatch gives him a hard-on.’
Sandy laughs. ‘We’ve got a few like that here. Same everywhere, old-style coppers are dying out. They’ve all got degrees now.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’
The WPC comes back with tea in proper cups and even a couple of Kit Kats. Nelson thanks her, thinking of the response he’d get if he sent Judy or Tanya out for refreshments. The word Kit Kat reminds him of Katie.
‘How’s the lovely Michelle?’ asks Sandy. He had been a guest at their wedding, twenty-odd years ago.
‘Champion. She manages a hairdressing business. Nice little set-up.’
‘And the girls?’
Sandy groans. ‘My boys too. Don’t know why the hell they have to go. Costing me an arm and a leg and all they do is get pissed in Thailand.’
‘How old are your sons?’ Nelson remembers them as little boys in identical Blackpool strips. He can’t remember their names.
‘Tom’s nineteen. He’s at Sheffield reading engineering. Ben’s just finished at Birmingham. God knows what he wants to do. Advanced piss-artistry perhaps. He’s living back at home, driving Bev and me mad.’
‘It’s tough, isn’t it,’ says Nelson. ‘Just when you thought they were off your hands.’
It’ll be another eighteen years before Katie is off his hands, he thinks. That is, if Ruth continues to let him be part of her life.
‘So, Harry,’ says Sandy. ‘What brings you to these parts?’ Nelson is so surprised to be referred to by his first name that he almost doesn’t answer. Somehow, in Norfolk, everyone calls him Nelson, except Michelle, that is. Ruth had even called him Nelson in bed.
‘I’m on holiday,’ he says, at last.
Sandy laughs again, the folds of his face turning upwards. ‘A holiday in Blackpool! Things must be bad.’
‘I wanted to spend some time with Mum,’ Nelson says, not entirely truthfully. ‘She’s getting on a bit.’
‘We all are, cocker,’ says Sandy. ‘I’m going to put in for early retirement in a few years.’
‘You’re joking.’ Nelson doesn’t know what shocks him more: that a contemporary of his might soon be eligible for early retirement or that Sandy Macleod, whom he has always considered the ultimate coppers’ copper, would ever want to quit the job.
‘I’ve had enough,’ says Sandy. ‘Too many bloody graduates, too much paperwork. Do you remember the old days? Drinking after hours in the Red Lion? Sid the Greek? Fat Bernie?’
‘I remember,’ says Nelson, though Sid the Greek and Fat Bernie are just names to him now. He’s sure that every police station has their equivalent. Suddenly he feels rather sad.
Sandy, though, seems to pull himself together. He sits up straighter, brushing chocolate crumbs off his paunch.
‘That case you mentioned, the fire. Professional interest, was it?’
‘Not really,’ says Nelson carefully. ‘Woman I work with, forensic archaeologist, victim was a friend of hers.’
Sandy groans. ‘Don’t talk to me about forensics. Every Tom, Dick and Harry’s a forensics expert these days. Put on a paper suit and you think you’re God.’
‘This woman’s OK,’ says Nelson. ‘Bit of a pain sometimes but OK.’
‘Well, we’re definitely treating her mate’s death as suspicious,’ says Sandy, pulling a sheaf of papers towards him. Nelson tries not to wince at the state of his friend’s intray. Though he’d never admit it to Sandy, Nelson quite likes paperwork and his desk at King’s Lynn is always immaculate.
‘Emergency services called at one a.m.,’ says Sandy, reading from a sheet. ‘Alerted by a neighbour. Arrived at one-twenty. Front door was locked, victim was just inside the door, looked as if he’d been clawing at it, traces of wood under his fingernails. Cause of death, smoke inhalation.’
‘Door locked from the outside?’
‘Yes. The key was still in the lock. No attempt to hide it. Seat of the fire was in the hallway. We found pieces of material just inside the front door, doused with petrol. Looks as if they’d been pushed through the letterbox.’
‘Jesus.’ Nelson is silent for a moment, thinking of Ruth’s friend—Dan Whatshisname—trapped in a burning house, clawing at a locked door. What a way to go.
‘Did you find anything else?’
‘No,’ says Sandy. ‘We had the bloody forensics buggers in there, sealed the place off, went over everything with a fine tooth comb. There were a few things that seemed out of place. For one, we didn’t find a mobile or a computer. You’d expect a university professor to have a computer. Probably one of the latest iPricks.’
Sandy speaks with contempt, and certainly his own computer, which looms over the desk, is not of the cutting-edge variety. It has ‘Property of Blackpool CID’ stamped on the back.
‘Maybe it was at the university,’ suggests Nelson.
‘No, we checked. He shared an office with another chap. Lots of books but no computer.’
‘Why would someone take his computer?’ asks Nelson.
‘Search me,’ says Sandy.
‘But you’re thinking murder?’
‘I don’t think it was an accident, put it that way. I think someone wanted Dan Golding dead.’
‘But why? I mean, he was a university professor.’ Despite his association with Ruth—and with Erik—Nelson still imagines a university professor sitting in a book-lined room, writing with a quill.
Sandy looks at him consideringly for a moment, as if wondering how much to tell him. Then he seems to make a decision, reaching for another file which is lying (Nelson can hardly believe this) on the floor.
‘Dan Golding taught at Pendle University,’ he says. ‘It’s one of the new ones, on the outskirts of Preston. Thing is, we’ve had a few funny incidents at Pendle recently.’
‘What sorts of incidents?’ asks Nelson. He’s expecting some loony lefty behaviour, animal rights activism perhaps (he’s had experience of that himself recently). So he is amazed when Sandy says, his comedian’s face deadly serious, ‘White supremacists.’
‘White supremacists? You mean, like the Ku Klux Klan?’
Now Sandy does smile, a brief, gummy grin which is soon replaced by the sad clown expression. ‘Lancashire’s version,’ he says. ‘No burning crosses but offensive notes sent to black members of staff, an attempted fire-bombing of a gay pride event, statue of Nelson Mandela defaced. Obviously an organised group, though we haven’t made much headway in identifying the ringleaders. The feeling on campus is very twitchy.’
Nelson remembers Ruth’s description of Dan feeling ‘intimidated’.
‘But why would they target Dan Golding?’ he asks.
Sandy shrugs. ‘He was Jewish, apparently. That might be cause enough for these bozos. But if this was them—arson with clear attempt to kill—it’s a step up from sending anonymous notes with pictures of monkeys on them.’
‘Is that what they do?’
‘Yes. Crude little leaflets about the superiority of white Aryan men. Last one was so badly spelt that my sergeant—a university boy—said that if this was Aryan supremacy he was glad to be black.’
This fits with Nelson’s own experience of the far-right—most of the Neo-Nazis he has met have been so stupid that walking and talking at the same time was an effort. Didn’t stop them being violent, though. He remembers policing a demonstration in Salford that got very nasty.
‘Have you got any suspects?’ he asks.
‘A few names,’ says Sandy. ‘Nothing definite.’ He doesn’t seem inclined to share these names with Nelson and Nelson doesn’t blame him.
‘So Dan Golding might have been killed by Nazi arsonists?’
Sandy smiles sardonically. ‘Welcome to my world,’ he says.