No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  ‘She family then, Izzy?’ Jennifer asks as she holds open the door. It leads onto a wide corridor that could be anywhere within the endless miles of this mansion. I’m usually good at keeping my bearings, but it won’t take much to have me totally lost. My new guide is completely at ease here though, and clearly knows her way around. She sets off at a speed I struggle to keep up with. Conversation is harder still.

  ‘No. Well, sort of. Not really.’

  ‘Aye, I heard about that. Still not sure why you’re here though. Izzy’s gone, right?’

  ‘But she was here, wasn’t she? And recently.’

  ‘Why you want to know?’

  ‘Because her sister’s worried about her. And because her father’s doing everything he can to stop me looking for her.’

  Jennifer stops mid-stride so suddenly that I’m a couple of paces past her before I realise.

  ‘That bastard’s not her father. Evil—’ Her face twists into an angry snarl, and she clenches both fists by her side. For a moment I fear she’s going to explode, or attack me, but the pent-up violence slowly ebbs away. When she’s calmed down enough to speak again, I can see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Izzy’s spent her whole life trying to get away from that man. She finally does it, finally escapes for good, and then two weeks later she’s gone. Why the hell did she leave here? It’s safe here. They can’t find us.’

  It’s the ‘us’ that makes me understand, and I kick myself for forgetting what this place is meant to be anyway. A refuge for battered and abused women and girls. A safe haven away from all male oppression. Yes, it’s a coven, but the witchcraft practised here isn’t something from Shakespeare or even a Stephen King novel. It’s far purer than that.

  ‘He abused you too, didn’t he?’ We’re standing outside another double-height door. Jennifer doesn’t answer my question, just turns the handle and pushes. It must weigh a ton, but it’s so well balanced it swings easily and silently open to reveal a large, empty bedroom.

  ‘This is Izzy’s room. Was, I guess. Don’t know if she left anything behind, but seeing as you’re the detective, maybe you can have a look.’

  Jennifer stands at the door, hesitant, as I walk in and over to the windows. The view is much the same as I had from the drawing room earlier, formal gardens leading to mature parkland. Only here it’s easier to see the ha-ha wall that stops the cows from trampling the roses. The antique furniture fits in with the decor so well I can only assume it was commissioned at the same time as the house was built. There’s no sign of anything personal though, no clue that anyone has slept in here recently.

  ‘When did she leave?’ I ask as I open drawers and wardrobe doors, hoping to find the smallest of clues.

  ‘A little over a week ago. Didn’t join us for breakfast, so I came to wake her up. This is what I found.’

  It’s not good that she’s been gone that long. I’ve a horrible feeling I know what’s happened to her.

  ‘She not leave any stuff? Clothes, books, phone?’

  ‘Mobiles don’t work here. It’s part of the magic that protects us.’

  It’s a strange word to use. Magic. Nevertheless, I pull out my phone and tap the screen awake. She’s right. No signal at all, and no Wi-Fi either.

  ‘How do you call anyone, then?’

  ‘Why would we want to?’ Jennifer looks at me as if the very thought is madness.

  ‘Umm, I don’t know. To let your family know you’re OK? To talk to your friends?’ I pull out a chair from in front of an elegant writing desk, sit down and start searching through drawers. Most are empty, and those that do contain anything look like it was put there before the last war. Unused envelopes turned yellow with age, writing paper thick enough to absorb ink from an actual quill pen, bunches of keys tied together with string, their brass dark and uneven, labels faded to obscurity.

  ‘This is a refuge. We come here to escape the world outside, study, learn the skills needed to survive, maybe help others. It’s always been the way. When you come to Burntwoods, you cut all ties.’

  ‘But don’t you want to go back? Don’t you miss it?’

  ‘Maybe, a bit. But I’m not ready to leave. Not yet.’

  ‘You can though? Leave, that is.’ I pull open the bottom-right drawer and finally see something from the current millennium. A colourful notebook and a cable for a mobile phone.

  ‘Of course we can. This ain’t a prison.’

  I miss the anger in Jennifer’s words at first, only hearing it as I pull out the notebook and flick through it. A few scribbled drawings, but nothing really significant. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just trying to work out what’s going on.’ I pull the cable out of the drawer and notice something else at the back. Reaching in, I pull out a half-empty plastic bottle of Coke. It sparks a memory, but not one I can place. I’m still staring at it, trying to get there, when Jenny interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘So what is going on then, oh great detective?’

  I put the bottle down on the desk. ‘Izzy left instructions with a friend. If she didn’t call once every week at a specified time, then the friend had to do something for her. If she couldn’t call from here, she’d have to go somewhere she could. I don’t know much about your – what did you call it? Magic? But let’s assume it doesn’t extend beyond those big iron gates at the end of the drive.’

  Jennifer narrows her eyes at me. Not quite a scowl, but more than halfway there. ‘Aye, you can get a mobile signal just out on the old Arbroath road. Sometimes in the woods up towards Coothies Farm. Dies as soon as you step back inside the gates though. Magic, see?’

  I figure it has more to do with topography and a lack of cell towers, but if Jennifer wants to believe in pixies, who am I to argue?

  ‘OK, so she has to leave the grounds to make a call. She sneaks out while no one’s looking, walks to the boundary, phones her friend to let her know she’s still safe, comes back. All good.’ I pick up the bottle by its lid, shake it slightly. The memory’s tantalisingly close, like having a word on the tip of your tongue. ‘The thing is, the people looking for her have access to some very sophisticated tracking equipment. They’ll have been monitoring her mobile number from the moment she was first reported missing, if not before. Soon as she used it they’d know where she was. It’d take them a while to get to that spot though, so if she came back here after the first call then they’d find nothing. Assuming your magic really does keep unwanted folk away.’

  I maybe put a little too much emphasis on the word. Jennifer breathes in sharply, and I can feel another tirade building.

  ‘OK. OK.’ I hold my hands up to placate her. ‘They can’t get in, can’t even find the place. But they’re very patient. They set someone to watch, and they wait. Next time she sneaks out to call her friend, they grab her.’

  Jennifer’s face is a picture of horror. ‘You really reckon he’s kidnapped her?’

  ‘If not him, then who else? You said it yourself. She was safe here. Why leave this place if you don’t have to?’

  ‘But . . . but what’s he going to do to her? Where would he take her?’

  I stare at the wall behind the desk, the Coke bottle going out of focus as I try to think. That’s when it hits me, where I last saw one like it. I’ve never been much of a Coke drinker myself, and I certainly wouldn’t have seen any at Folds Cottage or Newmore. Still woozy from the chloroform Adrian and his silent friend used to knock me out, I did see an empty bottle on a tray by a door, deep in the bowels of Roger DeVilliers’ tower block though. Sitting on a tray alongside a half-eaten meal, plastic cutlery. How many days ago was that? I cast my mind back, feel a shiver of horror as I realise it all fits.

  I spring to my feet so suddenly, Jennifer leaps back in alarm. I don’t know what trauma brought her here, but it must have been bad.

  ‘I think I know.’ I pick up t
he bottle, shake it again and watch the dark brown liquid foam against the clear plastic like burn water in spate.

  ‘But it’s going to be a bugger to get in there and find out.’

  37

  Afternoon’s fading into evening as I hit the border, driving south. It feels a little strange to be going back to London so soon, and there’s still the matter of the price on my head. But Izzy’s down there, and she’s in danger. It’s only a matter of time before Roger DeVilliers decides that she’s too much of a risk to keep alive.

  ‘You’re forgetting “Fairchilds never run from a fight” too. I never thought you’d hang around up here for long. Not once you’d worked it all out.’

  Pete’s face is in shadow despite the headlights of oncoming cars and the glow from the instruments. I’m not sure I’d want to see it anyway. I know what he looked like after they’d finished torturing him, can still see the smear of his brains on the office wall behind his dead body.

  ‘Charming, I’m sure.’ His voice is in my head, but I turn down the music anyway.

  ‘You’re not really here, Pete. Just my mind playing tricks. Just my conscience getting the better of me.’

  ‘And now I’m hurt, Con. We were partners. We worked well together, you and I. Besides, there’s a lot more going on here than you realise.’

  ‘What, you mean more than someone putting a bullet in your head? More than one of the country’s richest men serially raping his stepdaughter and murdering a journalist who’d stumbled on the truth? More than someone putting a contract out on me?’

  ‘A lot more than all that. Come on, Con. You’re missing the big picture.’

  ‘You reckon it’s all connected?’ The thought had occurred to me, but I’d discounted it almost as quickly. Occam’s razor is an essential tool for any detective.

  ‘Everything’s connected to everything else. You just need to see the links. They’re right here in front of you if you’ll just look.’

  Infuriating man. He was like this when he was alive. Purposely cryptic both to wind me up and to get me to think.

  ‘Can you at least give me a clue?’

  ‘I can help you with your reasoning, maybe. As you’re so fond of pointing out, I’m just your conscience talking anyway.’

  I mull that over as a few more miles of motorway rumble underneath me. It should be scary having a ghost sitting motionless behind you; that’s what all the stories I was told growing up said. But knowing Pete’s there, even if just in my imagination, is oddly comforting.

  ‘It has to have been someone in the Met,’ I say eventually. He says nothing back, so I continue. ‘I don’t think it’s Bain. He’s too new, and my gut says no. But he knows something more about the operation than I do.’

  Saying it out loud, it seems obvious, and I slap the steering wheel in frustration that I’ve not had any team members to sound off against. ‘That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? The operation. It wasn’t about the gang at all. It was meant to flush out corruption in the team.’

  ‘That’s quite a leap.’ Pete’s voice is level, neither confirming nor denying, like a politician.

  It makes a horrible kind of sense though. Only it backfired spectacularly. And once they’d tortured all the information they needed out of Pete, then I was really the only loose end. So they tied me up trying to work out who was after me while they shifted the blame for Pete’s death my way as well.

  ‘Bastards aren’t going to get away with it.’ I smack my hands against the steering wheel again, harder this time, then tug hard to stop the car veering into the middle lane. The movement gives me a shot of adrenaline, gets my blood pumping and wakes me up for the long drive ahead, but when I glance in the mirror to see if I’ve upset any other drivers, my ghostly confidant is gone.

  It’s getting very late indeed as I drive the narrow lanes from the main road back to Folds Cottage. At least I remembered to let Aunt Felicity know I was coming back. She’ll have left the front door unlocked and a light on to welcome me. Chances are she’ll be asleep in an armchair in the living room, even though I told her not to wait up. It’ll be nice to have someone normal to talk to for a change, and I’ll need something to unwind before I can sleep; ghosts and witches don’t really do it for me, and I’m still raging at the thought some of my colleagues have been behind all the shit that’s been going on recently.

  I almost don’t notice the car, tucked away in a gateway into the woods. I’m pressing on now, probably going a bit too fast for the road in my rush to get this interminable drive over and done with. I catch the swiftest glimpse out of the corner of my eye as I whizz past, but my senses seem to be enhanced right now. I play back what I’ve just seen as I slow for the turn onto the driveway, reach for the indicator stalk. It was a nondescript car, but new. I can see the number plate in my mind, the Vauxhall griffin on the front of the bonnet, the figure sitting in the driver’s seat briefly illuminated by my headlights.

  My initial thought is a young local and his lass, and I really don’t want to think what she’s doing. But that’s not the best place, or even the most popular, for that sort of thing. It could be that the woods around Folds Cottage have become a haven for doggers, of course. I think both Aunt Felicity and my father would have had something to say about that were it the case though.

  And then the image builds, the face forming impossibly in my memory. There’s no way I could have actually seen what I’m seeing now, and yet I’m sure enough to pull my hand away from the indicator, gently press the accelerator pedal and speed up again, past the turning I should have taken.

  The road curves round on its way to the village proper. I slow down and pull in once I’m sure I’m well out of sight and sound of the parked car. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced. It’s a perfect spot to sit and watch people coming and going from Folds Cottage. Time was I’d have scoffed at myself for being paranoid, but that was before three separate assassination attempts. Before my boss was shot in the head by one of his colleagues.

  A chill in the night air tells me that summer is coming to an end. I’m still dressed for the Highlands, which is some small consolation as I quietly climb over the fence and tread as silently as possible through the woods, back to the parked car. I needn’t have worried, the man in the driver’s seat is fast asleep, and he certainly doesn’t have a young friend giving him executive relief. I still crouch down low as I approach the door, ears straining for the sound of any approaching car that might light up the narrow track and reveal my presence. There’s only the distant roar of the dual carriageway and the quiet screeching of owls.

  Luck is on my side. If I was on a stakeout, I’d lock the car while I was in it. I wouldn’t have my seat belt on either. He’s forgotten both very important points taught to us as part of our CID training, along with the third one, which is not to fall asleep. He wakes as I open the door, but tangles up in the seatbelt as he tries to extricate himself. It’s a moment’s work to reach in and bang his head hard against the steering wheel. Even with the padding on most modern cars, that’s enough to stun him so that reaching in, unclipping the seatbelt and dragging him out onto the forest floor is simple. In moments I’ve got his arms locked behind his back, a knee holding him down while I go through his jacket pocket and find the expected set of cable ties. His weak struggles suggest both that he was in a deep sleep and that I’ve maybe worked a bit too much of the day’s frustrations out on him. On the other hand, he’s as guilty of Pete’s murder as the man who pulled the trigger. I know that just by his being here now.

  ‘Wha—?’ He blinks like a halfwit when I turn him over, struggles to sit upright until I place a heavy boot in the middle of his chest and press him back down into the loam.

  ‘Looking for me, were you, Dan?’

  ‘Are you sure this is wise, dear?’

  It’s taken me longer than I thought it would to drag Dan Penny all the
way from his stakeout car back to Folds Cottage. He’s fatter than he looks, and either faking it to make life awkward for me or still suffering from having his face clattered off his steering wheel. There’s a bit of blood around his nose, and one eye doesn’t seem to want to open fully, so maybe I was a bit more forceful than necessary. Pulling off one of his socks and shoving it in his mouth to keep him quiet was probably unnecessary too; it’s not as if anyone would have heard him shouting for help on a quiet country lane surrounded by woods and in the middle of the night. It made me feel better though.

  Aunt Felicity was awake when I arrived, and helped me get Dan into the garage, empty while my Volvo is away being fixed. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to pay for that; I burned up pretty much all my savings just buying the damned thing.

  ‘I reckon he’s faking it.’ The two of us stand over the wooden kitchen chair we’ve tied him to. Dan squints up at us, seeing us in silhouette against the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. It’s not as if we need to hide our identities, but it’s nice to see him suffering.

  ‘No. The poor dear’s concussed.’ Aunt Felicity has already brought a bowl of warm water, TCP and some cloths to clean up the grazes. I guess she can be the good cop if she wants to. I’m not sure I have the patience.

  ‘Well, Dan. This is how it’s going to be. You’re going to answer my questions, and only answer my questions. If you say anything out of turn, or if I don’t like the answers you’re giving me, then the sock goes back in. Nod if you understand, OK?’

  He tries to glare at me, but seems to be having trouble focusing his eyes. Eventually he gives up, drops his head a little in assent. I’m not so sure about the sock as I pull it from his mouth. It wasn’t quite so damp before.

  ‘You’ll be sorry for this, Fairchild.’

  ‘Ah, now, here I was thinking you were going to be reasonable.’ I shove the sock back where it came from, then turn to Aunt Felicity. ‘You couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could you? And maybe bring the kettle back too?’