by Mark Tilbury
‘Here we go. Barnaby and Annabelle Hunt, Britannia Bungalow, The Street, Upper Feelham. Girl’s name is Emily Hunt. Missing for two years. Demanding money from parents. Aged nineteen. There’s a phone number.’
‘You need to pay them a visit first thing tomorrow and find out what they know about this cult.’
‘And then what?’
‘We take it from there.’
‘What am I supposed to say to them?’
‘The truth, Ben. And then tell them you’ll do your best to put things right.’
Ben closed the book. He felt like a bird with one wing about to go searching for worms in a cattery.
Chapter four
Ben stood on the front doorstep of Britannia Bungalow and introduced himself to Annabelle Hunt.
‘Is everything all right? Has something happened to Emily?’
To Ben, the woman’s eyes already looked as though they were in mourning for her daughter. ‘No. Emily’s fine as far as I know. Can I come in?’
Annabelle stepped aside. She ushered Ben along a narrow hallway and into the front room. Her husband, Barnaby, glanced up from his newspaper. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Ben, Mr Whittle’s son.’
Barnaby looked back at his newspaper. ‘Who the blazes is Mr Whittle when he’s at home?’
‘The gentleman that’s looking for Emily.’
Barnaby’s cheeks flared red. ‘What’s happened now? That blasted girl’s been nothing but trouble since the day she was born.’
‘Considering you were away from home playing silly war games for most of Emily’s childhood, you’re not really in any position to make reference to it.’
‘Pie-crust. History seems to have rewritten your memory, woman.’
Behind the kitchen door, the Hunts’ Yorkshire terrier, Ritzy, yipped and yapped as though taking part in the argument.
‘It’s you that’s rewritten history. Your brain must have a piece of shrapnel lodged in it.’
‘Shrapnel, be damned.’
Annabelle sighed. ‘Oh, do ignore him, Ben. He’s given to occasional bouts of decency if you stay in his company long enough.’
‘And my wife is given to occasional bouts of honesty.’
Annabelle rolled her eyes.
‘And before you ask, I’ve already coughed up a king’s ransom to that private investigator. I’m not parting with a penny more.’
‘No one’s asking you to. If you’d just give Mr Whittle a chance to speak.’
Barnaby put down his paper and looked at Ben as if he were a fly that needed swatting. ‘So if you’re not after more money, young man, what do you want?’
Ben looked at the floor. The spirals in the red and gold Axminster carpet threatened to hypnotise him. To make matter worse, he’d not slept a wink all night. He’d let Maddie have his room. The sofa had offered no solace to his aching, restless body. ‘My father’s gone missing.’
Barnaby’s cheeks were now flame-grilled. ‘What do you mean, “missing”?’
Ben explained the phone call.
Barnaby seemed in no mood to offer sympathy. ‘All he had to do was find her and take a few pictures. Talk about bloody incompetence.’
Ben apologised.
Barnaby wasn’t listening. ‘Imagine if we behaved like that in the army? We’d all be serving under the shadow of the swastika by now.’
Annabelle stepped in and dismissed her husband. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. We’d all be serving under the swastika if the Yanks hadn’t joined the war. As you well know.’
Barnaby stood his ground. ‘Our freedom has nothing to do with the Americans. As I recall, all they did was drop an atomic bomb on the Japs.’
Annabelle tilted her head up. ‘If you insist on mixing fact with fiction and being so damned rude, go to your study and sulk. Or better still, take Ritzy for a walk. The air will do you good.’
‘Air? What bloody air? I’m more likely to get poisoned with all the lorries that go thundering through here these days.’
‘If only.’
Barnaby walked into the kitchen and banged the door shut behind him.
‘I’m so sorry about him,’ Annabelle said. ‘He’s spent most of his life shouting down subordinates in the army. He doesn’t know how to speak with a civil tongue.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘It’s not. And I apologise for his behaviour. Please take a seat.’
Ben sat down on a floral patterned two-seater sofa. Everything in the front room was arranged with precision. There was a dark oak coffee table set on a white rug. The table was at perfect right angles with the sofa and chairs. Even the ornaments and photographs lined up on the mantelpiece seemed in perfect symmetry.
‘What are you going to do about your father?’
‘I’m going to try and find him, Mrs Hunt. It’s all I can do. I was hoping you might have some idea where this cult is based?’
‘I haven’t got the faintest idea. That’s why we hired your father.’
‘Do you know anything at all about them?’
Annabelle shook her head. ‘Not very much. She got mixed up with this busker chap in Oxford. From that day on she behaved differently.’
‘In what way?’
‘She became more and more withdrawn. Impatient. Angry, even. It was terrible. She hated our way of life. She turned on her father, which I suppose you could interpret as standing up to him.’
‘Do you know this busker’s name?’
‘I should do. I heard it every minute of the day before Emily left home. His name was Marcus.’
‘What about a surname?’
‘She never mentioned it. It was all Marcus-this and Marcus-that. I just assumed it was a passing phase. Rebelling against her upbringing. She even called Barnaby a capitalist pig or something like that.’
‘Oh.’
‘Serves him right. He’s always tried to treat her like one of his recruits.’
Ben felt a degree of sympathy for Emily. Barnaby Hunt and Ben’s father sounded like kindred spirits. He also felt sorry for Annabelle Hunt. Her carefully made up face and neatly permed grey hair gave her the appearance of a woman in control; her twitching hands and bitten lower lip suggested otherwise. ‘How old is Emily?’
‘Nineteen last birthday.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Not this Christmas, but the one before. She came home and gave me a present.’ Annabelle held out her hand and showed Ben a cheap looking bangle dangling from her skinny wrist. ‘She stayed about an hour. She told me she loved me, and then she left.’
‘And she’s not been back?’
Annabelle sniffed. ‘No. Barnaby was his usual blustery self, following her out into the street and making a show of us. Shouting at the poor girl. Asking her when she was going to get a job. When she was going to get a wash. When she was going to start behaving like a civilised human being. He called her an “aimless hippy”.’
‘Our records show that Emily was demanding money.’
Annabelle made a face to suggest sour cream. ‘Yes. She sent a letter about three months ago asking for money for the Rapture.’
‘The Rapture?’
‘Some religious nonsense. It’s got something to do with the end of time. A spaceship is supposed to be coming down from Heaven to pick up the good and the great or some such rubbish.’
‘A spaceship?’
‘It’s utter hogwash. The cult is trying to extort money from its members. If you ask me, they’ve all been brainwashed.’
Ben saw an opening. ‘This money that Emily asked for? Where are you supposed to send it?’
Annabelle pulled at the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I haven’t got to send it anywhere. They’re going to send someone to pick it up.’
‘Was there a postmark on the envelope to say where it was posted?’ Ben asked.
‘No. It was hand-delivered. Do you want to see it?’
Ben nodded. ‘If that’s all right.’
‘She ask
s for quite a considerable sum of money. Two hundred thousand pounds.’
Ben abandoned discretion. ‘Bloody hell! How much?’
‘I’ll fetch the letter.’
Annabelle returned a few minutes later with the letter. She handed it to Ben. ‘I gave her everything, Mr Whittle. All of me. You look too young to have children, but one day you’ll understand. You’ll understand that there is no greater love than the one you have for your child.’
Ben took the letter from the envelope and read:
Dear Mother,
It’s been a while. Hope you are well. I would ask about Father, but I expect him to be floating on his usual bed of cholesterol. It’s been hectic here. We’ve been working hard making preparations for The Rapture. For our glorious union with the Lord Jesus Christ.
I know Father will dismiss this letter. But I speak the truth. The universal truth of Jesus Christ. I shall pray for Father that he might see the error of his ways. I know that he can’t see what he is. That is one consequence of bigotry. The Lord will judge him accordingly.
We are The Chosen. We are to meet with the Lord on The Final Day of Reckoning. To help us achieve this glorious dream, we need a vast sum of money to construct a spaceship. All members of The Sons and Daughters of Salvation are being asked to contribute the sum of two hundred thousand pounds. Please don’t tell me you cannot afford this, because I know that you can, with plenty left over to indulge your extravagant lifestyle.
Please look upon this as my inheritance. What is due to me. I shall spend it wisely, for there is no greater purpose than serving the Lord. We shall be resurrected, as was Jesus after the Crucifixion. The Lord is our salvation. He, and He alone is our keeper.
A motorcycle courier will collect the sum of two hundred thousand pounds from you on a date which will be specified in my next letter. You are to hand it to him in Daddy’s brown leather briefcase. Please don’t think about having him followed.
Your loving daughter,
Emily.
Ben put the letter down on the coffee table. ‘Have you had any more contact with your daughter since this letter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘When did the letter arrive?’
‘Easter.’
‘Three months ago? That’s quite a while.’
‘We called your father soon after that.’
Ben recapped. ‘So all you know is that your daughter met a busker in Oxford called Marcus and then she joined this cult?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘What were you going to do if my father located Emily?’
‘I don’t know. Barnaby was talking about getting her back. Forcibly, if need be. He claims to know people. It’s probably all talk. Most things are with him.’
‘Have you got a photograph of Emily that I could borrow?’
‘I’ve got nothing up to date. Your father took the last school photo. Emily hated having her picture taken. I’ll see what I can find.’
Annabelle returned five minutes later with a six by four photo taken on a beach. ‘This was taken on our last family holiday together.’
Ben took the photo. Emily’s brown eyes looked blank. Her lips were compressed into a thin line. Her dark hair was scraped back from her forehead and tied in a ponytail. ‘How old is she here, Mrs Hunt?’
‘Fifteen, nearly sixteen.’
Ben wrote his mobile number on the back of a business card and handed it to Annabelle. ‘I’ve got to get going. I’d be really grateful if you’d contact me if your daughter gets in touch with you again.’
Annabelle took the card and promised that she would. She showed him out. ‘Good luck, Mr Whittle.’
Ben walked away knowing he would need a lot more than luck to resolve this mess.
Chapter five
Ben returned home to find Maddie and his mother looking through an old photo album. His mother was still wearing her pale blue dressing gown. Her hair looked as if it were trying to flee her scalp.
Maddie looked up and smiled. ‘How’d it go?’
Ben sat at the dining table. ‘Not too bad.’
Anne looked at her son with bloodshot eyes. ‘Did you find out where this cult is?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What did the parents say?’ Maddie asked.
Ben touched the teapot. Cold. ‘Just that the girl started seeing some guy in Oxford. A busker. It seems that he got her involved in the cult.’
‘Well, that’s a fat lot of help,’ Anne said.
Ben sighed. ‘Maybe you ought to go and stay with Aunt Mary for a while.’
‘And what should I tell her? That Geoff’s been taken hostage by a load of maniacs in a cult? And then spend the next God knows how long listening to her telling me that I married the wrong man. She reckons everyone should marry a bank manager like she has. Sitting there all smug with her mock-Georgian house and mock-me manners.’
Ben tried to defuse her. ‘Can’t you just tell her that Dad’s away on a case?’
‘She won’t believe me. She’ll be suspicious. And then she’ll think he’s having an affair. Or worse still, that we’ve split up.’
Maddie turned to Anne. ‘I could stay here with you, if you want.’
‘What about your duties at the church?’ Ben said.
‘Lighting a few candles and saying a few prayers? I’m sure Dad can cope. He managed youth club by himself last night.’
‘A couple of hours is one thing, you can’t just uproot and—’
‘I want to.’
Ben looked at his mother. She looked like a woman trying to decide between a sinking ship and shark-infested waters. He then turned back to Maddie. ‘You’ll need clothes.’
Maddie grinned. ‘So take me home. We can have a chat with my dad, and then I can pack my stuff.’
Anne nodded her head. ‘I’d like that, Ben. I don’t want to go to Aunt Mary’s.’
Ben nodded. ‘Okay. Just for a day or two until we get things straightened out.’
***
Pastor Tom listened as Ben recounted his visit to the Hunts’ bungalow and described the contents of Emily’s letter.
‘So when Ben goes off to find this busker, his mother will be left on her own,’ Maddie said.
Pastor Tom’s blue eyes sparkled like sunlight dancing on waves. ‘And does Ben’s mother want you staying with her?’
Maddie pouted. ‘Of course she does.’
‘You’ve not forced this upon her because you think it’s what you should do?’
‘No.’
‘She’ll be glad of the company,’ Ben added. ‘In all honesty, I dread to think what she’d be like on her own.’
Tom nodded. ‘I know. She’ll feel like she’s lost half of her heart. But you’ve got to be careful. You need to give her time—’
‘We don’t exactly have all the time in the world,’ Maddie interrupted.
‘All right. Go ahead if you think it’s for the best.’
Maddie grinned. ‘I know it’s for the best.’
Pastor Tom tipped his hat back and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I suppose I could get Rhonda to help me out at the church.’
‘Rhonda will love that.’
‘Rhonda?’ Ben asked.
Maddie laughed. ‘Rhonda comes to every service. Monday, Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday. She’s sweet on Dad.’
Pastor Tom looked away. ‘Don’t be daft.’
Maddie ploughed on. ‘She walks over three miles to get to church, come rain or shine. That’s either dedication or love.’
Ben understood Rhonda completely; he would gladly walk barefoot across mountains to spend time with Maddie. ‘Are you sure you’re all right with this, Tom?’
‘Your father is missing, son. Only a mean-spirited person would deny help to someone in need.’
‘So I can go and pack, then?’ Maddie said.
Pastor Tom nodded. ‘Go on.’
Ben watched Maddie bounce out of the room. She looked like sunshine in her br
ight yellow dungarees. He turned to Tom and thanked him.
Tom reached out and took Ben’s hand. ‘So what are you going to do if you find this busker, son?’
Ben felt something pass through him. Something spiritual he couldn’t define. Peace? Love? Goodness? ‘I thought I might follow him. See if he can lead me to the cult.’
Tom nodded. ‘You could try and join the cult, son. Get inside it and help your dad that way.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. But to be honest, Tom, the thought of going anywhere near that bunch of lunatics terrifies me.’
‘The only thing to fear is fear itself. Try and remember that.’
Ben wasn’t so sure. Torture and death seemed pretty high up on his list of things to fear. ‘What if they smell a rat?’
‘You have to try and stay positive. Be proud of who you are and what you have achieved. Trust in yourself and trust in the Lord.’
‘I work in an office at home. I sometimes put “missing” posters on lampposts. Occasionally I go to the stationery store. I’m hardly James Bond.’
‘You’re so much stronger than you think, Ben.’
‘My dad doesn’t even trust me.’
Tom let go of Ben’s hand and took a step back. ‘Really? So who did he call in his hour of need?’
‘He’s got my number on speed-dial. That watch-phone’s not up to much except in an emergency.’
‘Nonsense. He called you because he trusts you to do the right thing.’
‘That’s why he’s always telling me to “buck my ideas up”.’
‘People always say things they don’t mean, especially when they’re trying to motivate you. You’ve got a lot to be proud of, Ben. You’re bound to be apprehensive. Life isn’t like the movies. It’s easy to be an armchair hero sitting at home playing games, quite another to confront real danger.’
‘I don’t even know what to say if I do find this busker.’
‘Tell him what he wants to hear. Tell him you want to turn your back on society. Just like that poor misguided child your father was looking for.’
‘Emily probably meant it.’