‘Sometimes.’ She paused and waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, she continued, ‘This might sound strange but when you spoke to me the other night it was like ... you did something. You took something out of me, something sick and crazy. You just took it away. I don’t even know what it was.’
‘A bad spirit, maybe.’
‘Really?’
He shrugged awkwardly and offered her a smile, though inside he felt pretty crumbly. Her presence was almost overwhelming in this little room. ‘I’ve seen a few strange things in my time. There’s a lot out there that western science can’t explain.’
She was staring at him like a cat watching a bird, coiled to pounce.
‘Anyway, I really am glad I helped you. I hadn’t forgotten about you. I’d been wondering how you were.’
She ignored this. ‘But how do you explain it? Please, just tell me what you did.’
Clearly, she wasn’t going to be content with a vague non-answer, and she wasn’t going to leave until he offered her something more. Her blue eyes drilled into him, predatory, demanding the satisfaction of knowledge.
‘I was being kind. It’s a rare commodity these days.’
‘That may be true, but it was more than that.’
It was only fair. She never had the choice to hold back from him.
‘Fine. I’ll tell you, but you won’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
‘I’m a psychic. More specifically, I’m a telepath.’
‘A what? That’s an actual thing?’ She stared at him; mouth half-open. An incredulous cough of laughter came out. ‘You really think you can read minds?’
‘It’s more skimming than reading, but yeah. I can prove it to you if you like, but I’d rather not. I don’t always find it very pleasant.’
‘You don’t find what very pleasant.’
Harrison sighed. ‘I’m like ... a radio receiver for other people’s emotions. That’s the only way I know how to explain it. I can tune into feelings, experiences, sometimes thoughts. Not always, and not for all people. You were wide open the other night because you were asking for help. Most of the time it’s not as easy.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘It just happens. I don’t know how or why.’
‘You’re right, I don’t believe you.’
‘You don’t have to, but you wanted an explanation and it’s the only one I’ve got.’
She stood up abruptly. ‘I think I better go. I appreciate what you did for me; that’s all I wanted to say. I’m not after having my cards read.’
‘I don’t read cards, so it’s just as well.’
‘Just as well,’ she repeated, shaking her head slowly. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, Indiana, but you’re completely strange.’
‘It’s an occupational hazard. And my friends call me Harri, with an i.’
‘Right, I’ll remember that just in case you happen to be passing the next time I take a notion to jump off a bridge.’
‘Amy, you asked and I told you.’
She got up. ‘I’d better go. This is too weird. Thanks anyway.’
‘Amy ...’
She stuck her hand up in front of her. ‘Bye.’ She backed out of the room, as if she was afraid of turning her back on him, and then pulled the door hard shut.
So you are the one, he thought. He sat for a minute, tilting back in his desk chair. Dusk was falling quickly in the shadowed square. He shouldn’t have told her. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to read her past. No wonder she thought he was strange. If that was the worst name she had for him, he’d got off lightly.
Maybe he’d been trying to impress her. He got the distinct impression that Amy Bell wasn’t easily impressed.
The conversation had shaken him. She had given off such a hot, intense energy, as if something inside her had been forged in fire and had never cooled. Then, maybe it had. From the briefest glimpse he’d caught of her past, he knew she’d been in the army. She’d been at war. He’d witnessed enough bloodshed to know it stayed with you. It claimed part of you, maybe forever.
She was intelligent. Curious. Full of questions she had never been allowed to ask. And there was something else about her: something familiar.
He met other people like himself sometimes, but not often. Some made a career of it, others a religion. The others he encountered pretended not to recognise what they shared. Most psychics he met spent their lives denying what they were or trying to rationalise it away.
He took off his glasses, let the world go soft around the edges, then locked the office door. Turning off the light, he sat on the floor, his back against the lumpy wall of books behind his desk chair. In lotus position, he closed his eyes and tried not to be conscious of anything except the rhythm of his own breath. For a couple of minutes, he could hear the noises of the department outside his door: footsteps going up and down the stairwell, bursts of laughter, muted voices next door in Jane Parson’s office, the clunking of hot water going through the pipes. Then it faded and his body swayed with his heartbeat. His heartbeat became a drum and he stepped in time with its beat into another place.
A steep-sided river canyon, thick with verdant jungle, a torrent of white water crashing through it, a rope bridge swinging over the water. He is standing on one side of the rope bridge, hands gripping the wet cables, his body gripped with terror. He’s never been in this place before, but has a sense that somebody is waiting for him on the other side of the bridge, just out of sight. Somebody he hasn’t seen in a long time. He glances over his shoulder and Tomas is behind him. ‘Come with me, Tomas,’ he says.
His mobile phone rang again and his eyes popped open. Heart clattering, the river still raging in his ears, he scrambled off the floor and grabbed the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Harrison Jones?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Dr Jones, this is Elizabeth Merriweather. I left a message for you earlier.’
He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead and put his glasses back on. ‘Yes, I got your message. I was teaching.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I was given your name by a friend of a friend. I’m told you can be of assistance in tracking down missing persons.’
‘I do offer certain services in appropriate cases, if and when the police have exhausted their channels, however, I…’
‘The police are not involved.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s a sensitive situation. I’m not comfortable discussing it without having met you. Would you be willing to come to my house? I’m in North Berwick. I’ll pay you for your time and travel costs, of course.’
‘Mrs Merriweather, I’m afraid I’m not taking new work right now.’
‘You have to,’ she blurted, and he could feel her distress through the phone. ‘I have nowhere else to turn. I’m afraid I’ll never see her again.’
‘I could give you the names of some other people I know.’
‘But I want you for your particular skills. My daughter is … fragile.’
‘It’s your daughter that’s missing?’ He didn’t know why this caught him off guard.
‘Yes, it’s my daughter.’ Her voice cracked, very faintly.
‘I suppose I could come and meet you,’ he said, cursing his lack of resolve. His life would be so much easier if he ever learned to say no.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘Truly, thank you.’
‘I don’t teach tomorrow morning, so I can take a wee drive down then.’
‘Tomorrow would be fine. Ten o’clock, if that’s not too early for you. Twenty Abbotsford Road.’
Harrison jotted down the address. ‘Right. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Dr Jones, is there anything I should prepare for your coming? Do you require any special ... equipment, or anything?’
‘It can be helpful if you have something that belongs to the missing person.’
‘My dau
ghter’s room is exactly as she left it when she moved out two years ago. You’ll have your pick of things she left here.’
‘Fine,’ he sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Always the first sign of overload. He put the phone down, turned on the computer and closed his eyes while it was whirring to life. It was pitch dark outside by the time he woke up.
FIVE
Amy left George Square and walked quickly in the direction of Nicholson Street, embarrassed by her behaviour in Harrison Jones’s office, and by her abrupt departure from it. For the second time in their brief acquaintance, he had created a feeling in her that she couldn’t describe, even if she wanted to. He had seen right into her. It was startling, but it wasn’t invasive. It felt like being examined by a trusted doctor. Like he could heal her, no matter how badly hurt she was.
He had said something about a bad spirit. Was that what it was? Did he think she was possessed by something evil?
If he did, she thought, he would be right.
Ever since Afghanistan, she had felt like she had been carrying something dark and alien around inside her body. Some parasitic demon bred of war. You could see it moving like a shadow through the ruined villages there, through the burnt fields and cratered mountainsides. You could see it behind the eyes of the locals. It had burrowed itself so deeply into her brain that she thought it would now be impossible to remove it without also removing part of herself.
Sometimes it made work unbearable. It had taken her years to learn to defend herself against the things she saw in the course of any given nightshift. You couldn’t afford empathy when you came face to face with a bloodied or potentially dying person. You had to avoid looking into their eyes, but sometimes it happened. You lingered just long enough to glimpse one outcome or the other. And you would know, with absolute certainty, that what you saw was true.
To kill time before going home, Amy went into a charity shop and browsed through racks of other people’s discarded clothing. She tried on a black parka, which was heavier and longer than the sporty waterproof jackets she habitually preferred. It had a thick fleece lining and a voluminous hood that fell down low over her eyes. The coat felt like padded armour, as if it had been designed to keep out more than the Edinburgh winter. Amy handed over the cash for it and wore it out of the shop, pulling the hood against the drizzle.
The hood closed out so much of the street noise that she could almost hear Harrison Jones speaking to her. His voice was clear and soft, and his accent was mostly Scottish but had undertones of other places. Every so often, something almost Irish crept in. He had been interested in her, but not in a predatory way. He didn’t look at her and see a piece of meat, the way so many men did. First impressions mattered to Amy. She had always been able to pick up other people’s intentions quickly, sometimes even before they had a chance to speak. She could smell a bastard a mile away. In her unit, they had called her the Sniffer Dog.
So, you are the one, his voice whispered. It had sounded so clearly in her ears, even though he hadn’t actually said it. One what? He had known she would turn up, and he seemed to think that her appearance was a confirmation of something. It ought to terrify her, but the impression that came off Harrison Jones was of kindness, first and foremost. Beneath that, a kind of scientific curiosity. At least he would be open to what she might tell him, unlike most people she met. There was always a point in conversation beyond which Amy knew not to venture. Not with anyone. Not even Caroline.
Harrison’s ready description of himself as a telepath should have been ridiculous, but wasn’t. Her hasty retreat was part of the act she felt she should play. As she dodged her way along the busy pavement, she found herself wanting to believe him.
She remembered the frustration of not being believed. It was like the gathering pressure of air pushed through a tunnel by an oncoming train. He would be used to that; he knew she wouldn’t believe him, even if she should. She should have stayed and heard him out.
She made her way home and prepared a meal for herself: chicken breast with a little pasta and salad. She ate in front of the television like she always did, because eating alone in silence filled her with despair. Often, her nights were preceded by the kind of fluttering anxiety that made her sweat and killed her appetite, but tonight felt different. She felt stronger than she had for a long time.
Harrison Jones had done something to her.
What had he done?
Whatever it was, she almost liked it. Washing the dishes, she looked out at the tenement windows across the green and tried to remember what it felt like. But it was like a dream and she couldn’t get close. What was it, exactly?
Who are you, she asked the empty kitchen. What are you?
SIX
Abbotsford Road stretched west from the wealthy, pretty seaside town of North Berwick, running along the edge of the golf course that separated the houses from the long stretch of yellow beach. Harrison drove slowly through thick haar, looking for number twenty. He found it through a pair of sandstone pillars: a Victorian Gothic pile at the end of a long gravel drive. The gardens were trim and bedded down for winter: weed-free borders, wet lawn, pruned hedges. A stand of Scots pines stood at the back of the house, tall and ghostly through the fog.
He pulled up beside a silver Mercedes, cut the engine and got out into the cold, salty mist. His middle-aged blue Golf looked like a poor relation beside the Merc, and he hoped this Mrs Merriweather wouldn’t think that he looked the same.
Amy Bell had been on his mind as he’d driven down the coast road this morning. It was a shame that he had come on too strong and frightened her off. He should have taken her phone number or email. He should have offered to meet her again, to explain more. The trouble was, the more Harrison tried to explain, the less believable he sounded.
Too late now. If she wanted to, she could come back.
Over the crunch of his shoes on the gravel, he could hear the sea turning onto the sand and the cawing of rooks in the pines. The damp chill penetrated his layers of wool and settled in his bones.
Harrison stepped up six wide stone steps to the front door and placed his hand on the bell. He paused to take in the sadness of the house, with its turrets and chimneys and many tall skinny windows, those wraithlike trees at the back, the rooks that gathered in their branches. It felt like the house was sucking all the oxygen from the air.
He rang the bell. A dog answered with several deep, proclaiming barks. It took a minute, perhaps more, for the door to swing open.
‘Mrs Merriweather?’
‘Yes. Hello, Dr Jones.’ Elizabeth Merriweather subjected him to an unsubtle visual inspection before saying, ‘Come in, please.’
She was a striking woman in a long grey tunic and a dark red pashmina. She was tall and slim, with silver-blonde hair swept back into a bun, probably no older than her mid-fifties. By her voice, he’d assumed her to be older.
Behind her, a copper Rhodesian Ridgeback stood growling. She glanced at the dog. ‘Simba, hush. Don’t worry about him, he’s a big baby. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She offered her hand.
As soon as Harrison touched her skin, he was hit by another volley of emotion. It was more than sadness; it was anguish. And guilt: intense, gnawing guilt that squeezed at his chest.
He tried not to flinch, but she must have caught something in his eyes because she asked, ‘Is everything alright?’
Harrison rubbed his hands on his damp coat, trying to hide his suspicion. ‘Yes, fine.’
‘Let me take your coat.’
He slipped it off and wished he hadn’t. It was barely warmer in the tiled lobby than it was outside. ‘Thanks.’
She hung it on a stand. ‘Well then, come with me.’
The dog strutted beside her, parading his balls the way a soldier parades a rifle, glancing over his shoulder at Harrison and issuing a low rumble. Like most posh people Harrison had met, Mrs Merriweather was unapologetic about her inhospitable dog.
The walls of the lobby we
re hung with gold-framed portraits and landscapes, some of them very old. The furniture was antique. He knew without having to ask that this house had been in her family for several generations.
‘We’ll sit in the study, it’s the warmest. I have coffee made, if you’d like some, or tea ...’
‘Coffee’s perfect, thanks.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Black, please.’
She showed him into one of the smaller rooms that looked out to the back of the house. There was a piano, two armchairs and a green leather sofa. Bookshelves lined one of the walls, stocked mainly with leather-bound collections: the kind of books that people bought because they looked good on the shelf, not because they wanted to read them. He assessed her for a couple of seconds and changed his mind. She had read them all. She read to escape from her life.
The shelves also held photographs, small paintings and drawings in mismatched frames, vases, handmade clay birds and horses. These were the kinds of mementoes that would tell him what he needed to know.
A fire flickered in the wood-burner, putting out a welcome radiant heat. Harrison stood in front of it for a moment, trying to dispel the chill that had settled into his bones.
‘It’s raw today,’ she said. ‘Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in just a moment. Simba, come.’
Harrison stayed by the fire. When she went out of the room again, he looked at the photographs on the shelves. There were pictures of three different dogs, one of a younger Elizabeth Merriweather riding dressage on a shiny chestnut horse, and one of a pretty young girl with a spectacular mane of pale blonde curls. He stared at her. Thirteen or fourteen, probably, on the verge of womanhood but lying like a kid on her stomach on a daisy-speckled lawn, propped on her elbows with her bare brown legs stretched behind her. This was the girl, without a doubt: the missing daughter.
Harrison brushed his fingers along the silver frame. It whispered her name to him: Lucy.
Lucy Merriweather.
He touched the frame again and got something else: anger. Elizabeth’s anger. Lucy’s anger. Furious but indistinct words fired back and forth like artillery. It felt like touching an electric fence.
Siren Song (Harrison Jones and Amy Bell Mystery Book 1) Page 3