"I don't know. I'm going to see Nick later. I'll ask him then."
"It's not a lot to go on is it? Find out her family name and call me back. I'll try talking to some contacts in Derby."
"Thanks, Raff. Speak soon."
It was half past one by the time Doug pulled up outside Nick's flat. He hammered on the front door and waited for some sign of life. Nick eventually opened the door looking pale and dishevelled.
"OK, Nick, let's talk. But not here. It's like a mausoleum."
They made their way along the road to a small pub which stood at the junction with the high street. Inside, its walls were stained yellow with years of nicotine. One other customer was seated at the small bar, staring disconsolately at the wall in front of him. Doug ordered two pints and they went to a small table as far from the other drinker as they could manage.
"How do you know she was kidnapped? Did anybody actually see anything?" asked Doug.
"There was a message on my phone. I missed the call. I was in the bathroom."
"What did she say?"
"Only 'they're after me – help me!' Then the phone went dead."
"What time was this?"
"She left my place just after six."
"Why did she go? I mean, it's not unusual for people of your age to spend the night together."
"She was frightened."
"Of what?"
"Her brother – Hakim. He's been acting strange – stalking her. He doesn't usually get up till late and Aleena thought she could avoid him if she went early."
"What did you do after you got the voice mail?"
"I went out and retraced her route back. Just before the turning into her road. I found a sandal – hers. There were blood stains on it. And there was blood on the pavement too."
"You're sure it's her sandal?"
"Yes."
"And you’re certain it's her brother who's taken her?"
"It's got to be. Their father told him keep a watch on Aleena at university – to make sure she was safe. But since he's got in with this religious group he's become more like her gaoler. Doesn't like her going out or seeing anyone – especially me."
"OK, so we've got to find her. But you don't know where she lives?"
"We never really discussed home. It was sort of 'off territory'."
"What about a name – a surname or family name?"
"Kapur. Aleena Kapur."
Doug made an entry in his notebook.
"You remember my colleague from The Voice – Raff? You met him a couple of times. He's got connections in Derby. The name may help. I'll text him and see what he comes up with."
Doug's phone, which was lying on the table, vibrated into life and flashed up a name.
"Winston. Good to hear from you. Are you calling to tell me the bastards have seen sense?"
The voice at the other end sounded tense.
"It's not good news, Douglas. They're going to press more charges."
"More charges? What do you mean?"
"They claim you paid for information."
"Well, of course I bloody paid for information. How else do they think it's done?" His voice had risen and attracted the attention of the lone drinker who had now detached his gaze from the far wall and was looking with mild interest at the unfolding drama.
"Douglas, this is about public officials. We're talking Cabinet Office. And it's also about corrupt police. Does the name Detective Superintendent Walker mean anything to you?"
"What about him?"
"Well, he's admitted to being paid by some of your journalists for information. And he's also admitted to receiving a very generous Christmas present from you."
"Oh, come on, Winston, that's normal. Probably just a bottle of plonk – that's all."
"In fact, a case of vintage Krug Brut costing over five hundred quid. That looks suspiciously like a bribe."
"Winston – that's how it's always been done. They knew about it at the top – Halshaw and Welland. They knew it was going on and they approved."
There was a pause at the other end. Winston cleared his throat.
"Douglas, the police want to interview you tomorrow at 11am. You must be there."
"Winston, I can't. I'm in Exeter at the moment with my son. His girlfriend's been abducted. I've got to help him. Her life may be in danger."
There was a pause and a heavy sigh at the other end.
"I can only tell you, Douglas, that if you fail to turn up tomorrow at Marylebone Police Station you may be arrested and taken into custody. I advise you to be there. Think about it."
The line went dead.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
"What's the matter, Dad?" The lone drinker moved nearer to the centre of the drama.
"I've got to go to London, Nick."
"When?"
"Tonight."
"But what about Aleena? You're going to help me find her."
"If I don't go back, I'll be arrested."
Nick rose from the table – his face contorted with anger.
"It's the same old thing isn’t it? You, you, you. Always you first. Same as it's always been. You duped me. I thought for a moment you actually wanted to be a real father. What a joke that was. Well, fuck you! I don't need you. Piss off back to London. I'll sort this out myself." He grabbed his jacket and raced out of the pub.
The lone drinker watched in stupefied silence.
Doug ordered a scotch and broodily contemplated his options. If he drove back to London now he could be there for eleven tomorrow but there was no guarantee they would release him on bail. If he went back to his flat, they would certainly track him down there. The only place they wouldn't find him was at Penhallam. He needed time – time to think. If he could only sort out this business with Aleena, he would happily give himself up. Just a couple of days – that's all he needed.
He decided to text Julia and say he would be back that evening. He needed someone to discuss this with – someone who could help him clear his head. At this moment, he longed to have Julia by his side.
'Julia. Things have taken a turn for the worse. I need someone to talk to. I need you. I'm coming back to Penhallam this evening. Is that OK? XX'
The lone drinker lurched against the table and fell into an adjacent chair.
"Are you on tele ... televis ... television? I'm sure I've seen you."
"Piss off, fella."
The drive back to Penhallam took an hour and a half. It felt to Doug as if his world was caving in. Labelled as a criminal by his peers and a useless father by his son, he began to think that he had few redeeming features. As ideas and thoughts tumbled in chaotic fashion through his mind, Freddie's words came back to him, 'listen to the voices ... the future lies in the past'. Were those simply the mumbled ramblings of a sick mind or was he trying to tell him something? What future? What past? He had absolutely no knowledge of the future except that it looked bleak. As for the past – that was exactly what he was paying the price for now. Or perhaps he meant the voices in the house – memories locked up in the fabric of the building? Did those have some relevance to his future? Were the terrible events that occurred at Penhallam in 1643 somehow linked to what was happening in his life now?
The mobile in his pocket vibrated with an incoming text. He pulled into a layby. He was only ten miles from Penhallam.
'Don't come. Please. Very bad time. I'll explain later.'
He felt a huge sense of deflation. Since he and Rachel parted he had come to realise that not having someone to confide in was one of the worst aspects of being single. With Julia he had found someone he could talk to, freely and frankly.
He sat in the car wondering what to do next. Why didn't she want to see him? What had happened? Had she suddenly changed her mind about him? Or was it perhaps something to do with her husband? Had she heard from him? Had he come back? Something worried him. A journalist's suppressed instinct. Julia's text was short – too short. It lacked any warmth. It didn't make sense. How could they go from bein
g lovers this morning to apparent strangers this evening? Perhaps something was wrong. Maybe he should go to Penhallam after all and surprise her. At least that way he'd find out.
Chapter 17: Penhallam, April 27th 2011
The light was fading as he drove the Mercedes down the lane towards Penhallam. Crows screamed from their perches in the high trees that bordered the road and lights flicked on in anonymous houses hidden behind clipped hedges. The lane narrowed almost to a track as he reached the turning. He parked the car by the edge of the drive and made his way to the main gate. To his surprise it was open and the sound of activity drifted across from the house. His spirits dropped. Perhaps Julia had visitors and that's why she didn't want to see him. He kept close to the hedge and made his way towards the gate so that he could get a better view.
A black transit van was parked on the drive. Two men emerged from the house carrying a large wooden cabinet. They were well-built with broad torsos. Both wore jeans and black polo shirts. A third man emerged from the house and appeared to be directing operations. The men loaded the cabinet onto the van and then returned to the house. As soon as they had gone, Doug slipped in through the main gate and merged into the shadows of the shrubbery. He was curious. These weren't guests. He moved closer to the transit, concealing himself within the branches of a large conifer. The men returned, carrying a sideboard which took all three of them to manoeuvre into the back of the van. He caught snatches of conversation.
"... three hour drive to Poole ... midnight ferry ... rendezvous Amiens," – perhaps it was 'Avignon'.
They cursed and spat as they pushed the sideboard over the tailboard. The one who was leader appeared agitated.
"Mind what you're about. You'll knock the fucking legs off if you carry on like that. That's where the crack is."
The other two appeared to take no notice but carried on heaving with their bulky shoulders until the furniture had cleared the tailboard.
Then another voice cut through the stillness of the dusk.
"Time we were going."
He was standing in the light of the open door. A clean-cut man in his mid-forties, medium height, fair hair and dressed in casual trousers and sports jacket.
"I'll lock up."
“What about her?”
"Leave her to me. She's my business."
Doug felt his body stiffen. There was another person silhouetted by the porch light – Julia. She appeared to be grabbing the man's arms and arguing with him. The man pushed her away violently and she stumbled to the ground. Doug heard her shout in pain. He had a powerful urge to rush out and intervene. But three men stood between him and the porch, impassively observing. If he broke cover now they would have little difficulty dealing with him in whatever way they felt appropriate. He decided to wait until they were gone.
He watched as the man pulled Julia back into the house. Then suddenly it was quiet. After a few minutes, the lights went out and the man emerged looking dishevelled and flustered. He hurried to the van and got into the driver's seat. The engine revved and with a shower of stones, they sped out of the gates and away from Penhallam.
For a few moments Doug could only hear the sound of his heart pumping and his breath coming in short gasps. He clung to the tree to steady himself. Then, double checking that they hadn't returned, he jogged across to the front porch. It was in darkness. The whole house appeared deserted. He tugged on the bell pull and heard the familiar sound of a chime somewhere deep within the house. But this time there was no answer. He stood, looking out from the house across to the fields and woods beyond. There was an eerie silence except for the sound of a distant owl. He shivered and turned back to the door.
"Julia, it's me, Doug. Are you there?" But there was no response.
He walked away from the porch and stood back, looking at the building. Its long low roof was silhouetted against the evening sky and its grey stone merged with the encroaching night. He looked for an alternative means of entry, an open window, a skylight or a side door. But everything seemed to be firmly closed. He scanned the courtyard looking for something that might help. For a moment he was confused. The courtyard was different. Things he hadn't noticed before – different shapes – different colours. He couldn't be certain.
Then as he looked at the far end of the house, he saw that one small window was slightly ajar – a casement window belonging to one of the first floor bedrooms. He tried to remember the layout of the landing. Then he realised it must be Kate's room, with its view over the courtyard – the room where he had felt her presence and her pain just a few days before. If he could find a way of climbing up there, perhaps he could get in and find out if Julia was safe.
Leaning against a wall, he caught sight of an old ladder with wooden rungs bound between two rough-hewn shafts. He placed it under the window where it reached just up to the sill. Standing on the bottom rung to test its stability, he looked up to the window to gauge his ascent. Then he heard voices – coming, he thought, from downstairs. But they were distant and there were no lights on in the house.
The ladder was narrow and rickety. As he reached the window the voices intensified – a mix of sounds, like a symphony of overlapping conversations. He shook his head hard, determined to stay in control. He must focus – find Julia. He reached out and grabbed the window frame. There was a small gap between the window and the sill in which he was able to insert his fingers. The window flew open and he pulled himself up so that his eyes were level with the window sill. He could just see inside the room. The portrait hanging on the wall, eyes cold and controlling. But there was a difference. A cupboard against the far wall. A bed with a cloak draped over it and a bag on the floor. Then he froze. He could make out the figure of a woman sitting on the bed. Her shoulder length auburn hair reached down to a red gown. Her gaze was fixed on the eyes that bore down from the painting.
She got up from the bed and moved slowly towards the window. For a moment she looked straight at him and through him – into the distance, into another place. Her eyes seemed to recognise and challenge him. He wanted to reach out to her but was prevented by time.
Then his foot slipped on the ladder. He was tumbling – ground and sky merged into one. He hit the stones with a sickening thud. Winded and dazed, he lay there, unsure whether he was dead or alive. Unsure which world he was inhabiting. Then he felt a hand in his, small but powerful. Julia – she must be safe. Relief. He felt himself being lifted. He opened his eyes to embrace her – to hold her – to tell her how much he loved her. But there was no one there. The courtyard was empty. He shivered uncontrollably. Sweat soaked his clothes. He felt faint but forced himself to concentrate. Julia. He had to find Julia.
The ladder lay on the ground. He placed it against the wall again and grasped the shafts with sweaty palms. A faint glow shimmered in the window above. From downstairs he could hear laughter, the sounds of people dining and the haunting strains of stringed instruments. His fear receded. He no longer cared which world he was in or what forces were against him. He had just one aim.
Seizing the shafts, he pulled himself up to the window. He tried to haul himself into the room but was held at bay by a spongy and impenetrable barrier. He pushed again with all his might, arms straining against the window frame, body suspended between two realities. He drove himself forward and tumbled into the room. An oppressive force seized hold of his chest like a vice. He struggled to breathe. The power was dominating, evil, vengeful. He fought to lift himself from the floor – onto his knees and then to his feet. The force bore down on him – engulfing – suffocating. He was locked into an embrace with the embodiment of evil. He summoned his strength and let out a cry which echoed round the room like an explosion, splintering the force which opposed him like shards of broken glass.
Then he was through – propelled forward – out of the door and into the corridor beyond. His vision was blurred, like two images superimposed. In one, he recognised the furniture, the dressers and the silent rooms of the house he knew.
In the other, he saw rough furniture and straw scattered on the floor. Shadowy people watched him and laughed as he struggled to find reality.
He reached the stairs and went down into the hall. It was empty and silent. The shadows had gone. In their place he smelt something pungent – gas.
"Julia. It's me – Doug. Where are you?"
He recognised it as propane. He sniffed to work out the direction. Across the hall was the snug in which he and Julia had sat drinking on their first night together. He hurried across to the room and opened the door. The smell was overpowering. A gas poker lay on the hearth by the fire – its tap turned on. It was a time bomb – due to go off at any moment. Julia lay on the floor – unconscious – a bottle of pills by her side.
He raced to the windows and threw them wide open. Then returning to the hearth he turned off the gas tap.
"Julia, Julia, it's me, Doug. Wake up."
He slapped her face lightly and shook her. She moaned. He pulled her up to him and she opened her eyes.
"We must get out of here."
He helped her to her feet and with his arm around her waist, led her away from the room. In the kitchen he forced her to vomit as he'd made himself do many times in the past when his body was awash with alcohol. Then he made her tea and covered her shaking body with a large blanket.
"Who were those people? Who was the man who pushed you?"
She looked startled.
"How do you know?"
"I was there. I saw it happen. I should have acted earlier but there were three gorillas blocking my path."
She looked into her mug of tea and said nothing.
"We must get you to a doctor."
"No, no doctors. I'll be alright."
"But you need to be checked out."
"I said no doctors."
It was delivered with a firmness that he knew he couldn't challenge. He sat down opposite her and took hold of her hands.
"Julia, someone tried to kill you. Who was it? Was that man your husband?" She looked down, tears falling into the mug of tea.
"You won't understand."
"Then tell me."
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