“Hey man, I don’t know where she is. Look, I’m sorry we’ve lost her, but I have to get back to my division. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
Ire slumped further into his swivel chair, his expression dark and dangerous. He nodded at Brian and turned towards his terminal, his gesture one of utter dismissal.
Shit. Shit! How the hell has she managed to escape the notice of half the police force of Manchester?
Frustrated with the lack of progress in finding the girl Ire turned his attentions back to the information he’d found about his father in his mother’s house. He’d always known Alfie wasn’t his real father, mainly because Alfie wouldn’t let his mum forget it. And his mother, despite the fact she crumpled beneath the boot of Alfie never ever let on who his real father was. But when he turned sixteen he packed a bag and left. At the door his mother silently handed him his birth certificate. At the time he glanced at it briefly before stashing it in a pocket of his bag. Then his only concern was getting out from under Alfie’s rule.
And when he joined the force the document was just a means of identification and nothing more. His job consumed him. He liked the power it gave him and he forgot that he ever cared about the need to know his real dad.
So, this Arthur, he knocks up mum and then does a runner down to London to do his thing - medical school. Mmmmm, not so decent then. Just an excuse to get away from her if you ask me. But they write those letters to each other for a few months, then nothing. What a load of crap. I have enough on my plate without having this shit to deal with.
An incoming message in Ire’s inbox flashed. What he read lifted his mood significantly. A satisfied smirk now twisted the fox-like features of his face. Ire laughed out loud. The laughter grew louder and became a harsh cackle. Members of his team looked at each other nervously.
Instinct — it never failed him. One national database search later and there it was. Her name, linked to a murder investigation in London. Out of interest he cross referenced the cited inspector’s name attached to the file. Two things made him start as he began reading through the document. The first was the detective's name and the second was his list of collars. Bloody hell. Ire felt a grudging respect for this Deed. Funny thing, coming across that surname twice in one week. It's fairly uncommon . He found that out when he got one of his lackeys to do a bit of ancestry digging. He was playing with the idea of finding out about his father, just playing with it. But this was a bit of an incentive to find out just a little bit more.
I think I need to call in some favours down South. Wonder why this Deed has done a sideways move? May be something worth knowing... for future use. Imagine if we’re actually related. He’s not that much younger than me, could even be my brother. Just my luck if I have a brother who's a bloody Sherlock Holmes. Shit, too right, he had a father figure by his side all his life. If he is... another policeman - must have been in the old man's genes. Couldn't have been mum she was a stupid cunt.
Chapter 14
Madie had been at Sylvie’s house for nearly a week. Despite the fact the house was a Piccadilly Circus of people having readings Madie felt safe in the ramshackle but homely Victorian terrace. She had a room at the top of the house and was there or in the cosy kitchen with its kettle sitting on the hob just waiting to be boiled. Sylvie’s old school mothering soothed Madie. Some of the burden of her anxieties was lifted from her shoulders. It made her think of that old saying, one of many her mother had often quoted to her: a burden halved is a burden shared. So maybe those sayings were there because they were mainly true. Sometimes our parents do know what they’re talking about .
When Madie called and took a leave of absence from the refuge, Moira Carson told Madie the police had been asking questions about her.
“Don’t you worry luv. You've never let us down before. I knew it had to be a family matter or illness when you didn't call in. I told the police you called in sick when they showed up asking for you. You take as much time as you need. We’ve a lot of volunteers in at the minute so we can cope. You take care now luv.”
Madie heard the bustle of the centre staff as they prepared for the evening meal and someone calling for Moira.
“Got to go luv.” She scarcely had time to add anything before Moira put the phone down.
The police! Maybe it's Deed. No, it's that estate agent. They know it was me. Somehow they know it was me. I told Andrew but he told me not to worry and now he and Sylvie will be accessories for helping a murderer. Maybe I should just hand myself in. It will be easier on everyone if I do.
Sylvie appeared and as though sensing Madie's thoughts said, "Time for a chat Madie."
“I should hand myself in to the police.”
“I don’t think you should Madie. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.” Sylvie marshalled Madie along the corridor towards the dining room.
"Moira says the police are looking for me."
"Let them look. You need some time to sort through your thoughts and feelings."
"You don't believe me. You think I'm just making up this story for attention."
Sylvie stopped and rested her hands on the tops of Madie's shoulders. "No, no Madie. I really do believe you. I think there's a lot more going on here than you or me know yet."
“What should I do?”
“Let's try things my way first." Sylvie wrapped a protective arm around Madie and she stepped into the cave of the offered security, revelling in the scent of faded rose potpourri clinging to the older woman. "If you still think you want to go to the police after that then you do that. Don’t go doing anything rash like calling the police just yet though. You just talk to me or Andrew first.”
“Are you sure I’m not in the way?”
“Good heavens no! There’s more than enough room in this old place.”
“Sylvie, am I cursed?”
Turning Madie to face her, Sylvie placed a hand on either side of Madie's face. Her palms were cool. Her voice was tender. “I can see why you feel you're cursed Madie. Will you let me contact my guides to see what they say?”
“I don’t believe in any of this stuff Sylvie.”
“That’s alright. You don’t have to believe in it. The things you say you can do Madie, it's not usual, there's something else going on here. I don't think the police are going to be able to help you. I think there's something paranormal happening to you."
"I thought if I said that Sylvie then people would really think I was mad."
"You're not mad. You're experiencing something very dramatic and I'm amazed you've coped so well. Father Andrew says he's the first person you told."
"I nearly told someone else, but ..."
"You just felt so foolish."
Madie nodded as they stepped into the dining room, glad to be talking to someone who didn't dismiss her views, didn't look at her as the monster she was sure she was becoming. Maybe Sylvie can help me understand what's happening to me; help me control what I’m doing. Help me get rid of it.
"What do we do now Sylvie?"
"You sit in that chair and let me contact my guides. If I ask you a question just answer simply. If you don't know, just say you don't know. Okay?"
Madie nodded. She waited for Sylvie to lay a velvet cloth on the table or to close the dining room curtains and light candles. She wondered if Sylvie would change out of her tweed skirt and sensible brogues into something more flouncy. I wonder where she keeps her crystal ball. Sylvie did none of these things. Instead she settled herself into her chair and breathed deeply and evenly. Madie counted - in for five, out for five, in for five, out for five.
Madie’s eyes drifted around the parts of the room she could see from where she sat. At the bay window there was the glimmer of the streetlight, suffused by the sheer fabric of the inner curtains. The dim of the winter evening made the pole of the streetlight difficult to see and the glow of light hung in the air like a mini spaceship. Madie turned her attention to the inside of the room. A soft hint of rose scent was
in the air. Sylvie’s garden was amass with rose bushes and other scented flowers and shrubs. Sylvie made her own potpourri and a large, delicately shaped white bowl full of dried rose petals took centre stage on an ancient pine dresser. A pair of matching candlesticks stood guard over the bowl. The patina of the wooden boards beneath Madie’s slippered feet reminded her that many generations of feet had stood and walked upon this floor. Madie heard Sylvie's breathing pattern change. There was a depth in her breath like someone in REM sleep, but Sylvie's eyes were open. Looking directly at Madie she sighed lightly.
“Mmmm.” Sylvie suddenly screwed up the right side of her mouth and frowned slightly. “I’m sorry Madie. I must be tired. I’m having problems linking with my guides. Can we do this tomorrow or perhaps on Sunday? Do you think you could wait?”
“Yes, yes of course. I’m sorry. You’ve been working all day. All I’ve done is sit up in my room or in your gorgeous garden. Can I make you a cup of tea or something?”
“No, no dear. I’ll be fine. I think just a good night’s sleep is what I need.” Sylvie launched herself from her chair and made her way out of the dining room. “Goodnight dear.”
“Goodnight Sylvie.” Madie sat staring at Sylvie’s empty chair. She couldn’t help but feel that Sylvie had in fact received a message, but she was reluctant to reveal the nature of it. It's something awful and she can't bring herself to tell me what it is. She's claiming she's tired and run off to bed so she won't have to face me. She's probably on the phone to Father O'Malley right now. Madie stood in the hallway staring at the telephone, wanting to pick up the receiver and confirm her suspicions. Her hand hovered over the handset but then she took a deep breath to steady her nerves and silently berated herself for her self importance. The world doesn't revolve around you Madison Bricot. You've been doing nothing all day. She's been seeing people on the hour with only a break for lunch and dinner. And whether or not you believe in this stuff it takes a lot of energy to make yourself available to someone's every need.
Not everything she says makes much sense but she's so calm about it all - talking about spirit guides and the paranormal as if they really exist. Well, they do for her. At least she believes me. I thought I'd made the worst mistake ever when I told Father Andrew. And now here I am staying with a friend of his. Imagine, a priest having a psychic for a friend. And why not? I really hope she can help me. I don't want to think about what will happen if she can't. So good though, just to have someone to talk to at last. I think I might actually have a decent night's sleep.
Chapter 15
Sylvie’s hand paused inches from the phone. It's too late to call Andrew. It will have to wait till morning. She turned from the telephone and began her bedtime routine: moving continuously in a well rehearsed pattern between her bed and her en-suite. She carefully removed her wig and hung it over the knob at the end of the bed. She glanced at the wig critically. Must book you in for a wash and reset. Her false teeth came next. The Steredent tablet went into the half filled glass and bubbles rose to the surface in a gentle swirl. Finally the teeth, just five teeth from the top, thank heavens it wasn’t a bottom set too. Sylvie listened to the clink of the enamel against glass as she removed the day’s make-up with care and concentration. She looked at her naked image in the mirror. As she smoothed her wrinkle cream into the skin of her face and neck Sylvie considered the message she had received during her sitting with Madie. Frowning like that Sylvie makes the use of this cream pointless. But the message had been a troubling one.
The scales are balanced . The words had bounced around in her skull and were then followed by a very clear image of Lady Justice with her balancing scales held high. Behind Lady Justice a long line of dead men stood as though waiting in a queue. Above all this was a bubbling cloud mass with rays of light slanting down at sharp angles and lighting the scene in an almost blinding light. That blinding light, I've seen that before. It means only one thing. Not for the first time, Sylvie wished she was an artist. The image she had received cried out to be put down on paper. Poor girl, what a role to have placed on her shoulders. Why does it have to be her? Well, why does it have to be anyone? It's very Old Testament. I wonder how Andrew will take this?
Ensconced in fleecy pyjamas, Sylvie checked to see if her electric blanket had warmed the bed to the heat she desired. Satisfied, she reset the dial to zero and slid between the sheets, slammed her fist two or three times into her pillow to make it conform to the shape she wanted, lay back and clapped her hands twice to turn off the bedside lamp.
London (ii)
Chapter 16
They were in bed. Madi was snuggled up against Robert, her head resting on his chest. She was snoring lightly, her lips slightly parted. His fingers trailed cautiously through the riot of her tangled curls and caressed her scalp gently. Her small hand rested on his torso in a relaxed curve. Carefully withdrawing his hand from Madi’s curls, Robert closed the biography he was reading, tucked it under his pillow and brushed his lips against her forehead. Her lips twitched into a smile and she turned over. He let himself drink in every aspect of her sleeping form. The sun of their Italian honeymoon had bronzed her skin. It appeared to glow against his tanned but much lighter arm. He let his thumb graze the goldfish tattoo above her right shoulder blade which had been an unexpected but pleasant surprise. His physical heart beat with a steady rhythm but some other part of him, deep at the core of who he was, trembled at the enormity of having her here beside him. Robert stretched out an arm to switch off the bedside lamp then turned to nestle himself against her. They lay curved into each other and his breathing deepened as he sunk into an untroubled sleep.
These dreams were a frequent occurrence. They all hinted at a piece of tranquillity that could have been. He loathed them but felt bereft if he woke without having had one. Whenever he woke from one of these dreams Deed was visited by a sharp sense of loss.
Are they the part of my subconscious reminding me I've put my career on the line? Written down in black and white what I know to be a lie... for a woman I barely know. There's no evidence though. Nothing substantial to say she killed her boyfriend because she kissed him. She didn't actually confirm the fact she kissed those men. I read something in her eyes is all. Something I didn't even think about until the Italian on that train. Now here I am wondering if she's up in Manchester kissing men indiscriminately and killing them just for the fun of it. How could I be so right and so wrong? I knew there was something about her from the start. Just like I always know. What is it about her that has me so rattled? I hardly know her. Why would I want to protect her? Maybe it's something about her - pheromones perhaps. Maybe that's how she does it, draws men in and then...
In an old shoe box, in a corner of his wardrobe, out of reach of both daylight and artificial lighting, was a sealed envelope. Inside the envelope was the audio tape of Madi’s strange confession told to him in his office. Alongside this slim black rectangle of slumbering words lay his notes of that interview. He had not touched the contents since he put it in that darkened topmost corner, but the after image of the words he had written on the final page on his return from Manchester still glowed on his retina whenever he allowed himself to think about it. Even as he had written the words he had been amazed at the steadiness of his hand and the unwavering aspect of his handwriting. But the contradictory words he wrote afterwards in his final report snaked across the page, taking on the mesmerising quality of a cobra rearing to strike.
*****
"The coroner's report on the Burry case came back Sir. Death by natural causes. Are we going to add him to your dead men files?”
"No." The dead men files were consigned to the back of his filing cabinet. He hadn’t gone near them in over a month. "I'm not working on those cases anymore Johnson."
"Right sir. Any particular reason? I thought you found them rather entertaining."
"Just not for me any more." Deed avoided Johnson’s eyes, believing this perceptive young policeman would read the lies which
lay hidden behind his pupils. "I'm thinking of taking some extended leave."
Johnson looked surprised. "You never take time off sir, not even when your father was ill."
"Yes, well, maybe I should have." He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell the younger officer he was thinking of moving on. He liked Johnson but realised he’d never really spent much time with him. More and more recently he’d been wishing he’d made different decisions about the way his life ran. He especially wished he’d not chosen such a solitary lifestyle. Inspector Deed had many admiring colleagues but the man Robert Deed could count none of them as friends. And suddenly he found he wanted, more than anything, to have someone to call friend.
Hesitant but resolute, Deed took his first faltering footfalls into the murky world of friendship. “Martin.”
“Yes Sir.” Johnson’s eyes were round with amazement and no wonder. Deed could not recall ever addressing him by his first name in the two years of their working together.
“Do you fancy a drink later on?” Deed waited for the negative reply.
Johnson’s eyes widened then his mouth spread in a smile. “I’d like that Sir.”
Deed found himself returning the smile. He’s actually pleased I asked him. “ Is The Lantern alright for you, or do you prefer The Bull?”
“The Lantern’s good Sir. Nice grub in there too.”
Deed nodded “Yes, the food is good.”
“Right Sir. Later then.”
“Later then Martin.” Deed pretended to focus on the file in front of him as Johnson left his office. The pleasure his invite had obviously evinced in Johnson had taken Deed by surprise. It was all well and good to like someone but there was never any guarantee you’d be liked in return. It was a heartening feeling to know he provoked an ember of friendly emotion.
*****
When Deed saw the job advertised on the message board he thought it was a joke. The words Psychic Division: Liaison Officer were book ended by images of a haunted house.
Six Dead Men Page 10