Dying Fall

Someone like you. After all, you must give people shocks sometimes, wandering around in your cloak. It probably wasn’t anything to do with the site or King Arthur.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad. ‘It felt staged to me. The way it turned and stared at us.’
    Ruth shivers. ‘Do you know what, Cathbad? I think we should go home.’
    Cathbad is silent for a moment, medatively chewing sweet and sour pork. Ruth says, almost apologetically, ‘It’s just getting too scary for me. The text messages. Pendragon dying. Now the bloody Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come following us around. I don’t want Kate to stay here any longer. I want to take her home.’
    ‘I thought you wanted to look at the relics from the site.’
    Ruth has made an appointment with Clayton Henry to see the tombstone and the raven inscription.
    ‘That’s on Tuesday morning. We could go home straight afterwards.’
    Cathbad sighs. ‘OK. I’ve got to go to Clitheroe on Monday to see Pendragon’s solicitor. Then we might as well go home.’
    Cathbad had been surprised to hear from Pendragon’s sister that his friend had made a will and that he had been named as the executor. Ruth is planning to spend the day with Caz.
    ‘Good,’ says Ruth. She feels relieved but also rather sad. She can’t rid herself of the thought that by running away like this, she’ll be abandoning Dan and his great discovery. But the police are investigating Dan’s death, and while she doesn’t much like Sandy she imagines that he doesn’t give up easily. Sandy and Tim will infiltrate the White Hand and will discover who stole the bones and set Dan’s house on fire. Then Dan and King Arthur will both be able to rest in peace.
    ‘I can’t wait to see Flint again,’ she says.
    *
    Sunday may be a day of rest but, for DCI Sandy Macleod, it’s business as usual. He decides that Terry Durkin needs a shock so he pays him a visit, causing quite a stir in the quiet street of lawn-mowers and car-washers by drawing up outside the house in a marked police car, driven by Tim.
    Terry appears on the doorstep in his slippers.
    ‘What the hell’s all this about?’
    ‘Few questions we’d like to ask you,’ says Sandy, smiling pleasantly at Terry’s next-door neighbour, who is blatantly peering over the fence.
    ‘Can’t it wait until Monday?’
    ‘Not really. We’ve had an interesting bit of information about you.’
    Terry backs away slightly, which gives Sandy the chance to barrel over the threshold. Tim follows, looking apologetic.
    ‘I didn’t say you could come in!’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ Sandy pauses. ‘Do you want to do this down at the station?’
    Terry looks at the large man who seems to be taking up most of the hall. He is clearly weighing up whether to order them to leave, or to co-operate and complain later. After a moment, he says, ‘Come through to the front room.’ Adding, ‘Mr Greengrass will hear about this.’
    ‘Always glad to hear from my old mate Pete,’ says Sandy genially. He leads the way through the hall, which smells strongly of roasting meat, and into a room dominated by a flat-screen TV and flowery sofa and chairs.
    Sandy lowers himself into an armchair with a sigh. ‘Sit down, lad.’
    ‘What’s all this about?’ asks Terry, remaining standing.
    ‘Live with your mum, do you?’ asks Sandy.
    ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ says Terry, adding in a slightly awed voice, ‘How did you know?’
    Even Tim has to admire the speed of his boss’s deductions, while deploring his methods. OK, the
Inside Soap
and
Chat
magazines on the table are a bit of a give-away, as is the knitting on the arm of the chair. Tim noticed the stairlift as soon as they got in and there are also headphones for the TV and one of those grabbing arms for picking objects off the floor. The whole room is old-ladyish really – white lace covers on the chairs, framed Bibletracts on the walls, a gas fire with fake coals, china horses, and a complete set of Catherine Cooksons. The interesting thing is how little of Terry’s personality seems to be reflected in the house. The only signs that a young man lives here are a set of dumbbells in the corridor and a copy of
Cycling Today
lying open on the sofa. Of course, Tim reflects, one doesn’t want to be sexist or ageist: both these items could belong to old Mrs Durkin.
    ‘Where’s Mum now?’ asks Sandy.
    ‘At church.’
    ‘Is she a Catholic?’
    ‘C of E,’ says Terry, sounding shocked. ‘What do