‘What did you have in common?’
‘We had you in common.’
‘Is the painting finished?’ I asked.
‘It’s a picture of regret,’ said Ruby. ‘It can’t be finished.’
A Buried Book
That night, I tried to get further through Frankenstein but, whether I was too distracted by Ruby’s records or by the thought of Scarlett, I struggled to take in the words.
When I woke up on Saturday morning, the book was open on the pillow next to me. I picked it up and read the sentence at the top of the page.
I have described myself as always having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature.
I liked that expression, A fervent longing. My whole life, the only thing I had ever longed for was to have something to long for. There were no secrets I wanted to penetrate. I didn’t have any obsessions. Angus had his trees, Ruby had painting and Cornish had all that stuff about books, politics and the environment. I envied them all their passions. I had never cared about anything until Scarlett got on that bus.
The house was freezing cold and the bathroom mirror steamed up in seconds when I turned on the shower. I drew a face like the one Angus had drawn on the bus window but the drips came down in a different part of the mouth and it looked more like an uneven rabbit than a vampire.
It was still raining when I headed out, so I put on my most waterproof coat.
I was supposed to be going to see Angus but since Cornish’s house was on my way there was no harm in keeping an eye out for Scarlett. ‘Hey, Scarlett,’ I would say. ‘What a coincidence. I was just cycling past. How are you?’ Something like that. It was best not to rehearse it too much.
It was a steady downhill slope to Lower Marsh so I stopped peddling and freewheeled down. I kept my hand on the brake to keep my speed down. There were twelve houses in No Town and I had soon reached the end with no sign of Scarlett. I turned the bike in a figure of eight, looking around, then pedalled back past the houses, slower still. I considered cycling up to where she got on the bus to look for her house, but that felt too much like stalking her. This was more a case of cycling up and down a road, trying to catch a glimpse of her. Completely different.
After the third pass, I parked my bike in an alleyway between two of the houses and went around the back where there was a big patch of wasteland, with long grass and marshy ground. That was where I finally saw Scarlett. She was crouching behind a hedge around the back of Cornish’s house. She was wearing her yellow coat with the hood pulled up. I walked over as casually as the swampy ground would allow.
‘Hey, Scarlett,’ I said. ‘What a coincidence. I was just … ’
She silenced me with a look. ‘Eddie, you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t anything you can know about.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘I can’t tell you. Stay out of sight.’
I ducked down next to her. ‘What are we doing?’ I whispered.
‘We aren’t doing anything. I am watching Patrick Cornish’s house.’
I peeked through the hedge at his back garden.
‘Why?’
‘Just so you know, the best you’ll get as an answer to that question is a plausible lie,’ she said.
‘How do you know he’s in?’ I asked.
‘The light is on and Patrick Cornish isn’t the sort of person to waste electricity, is he?’
‘True. He’s always going on about all that environmental stuff. Only the other day —’
Scarlett placed her finger against my lips to shut me up. She had cold hands but I didn’t care. Her finger lingered there and I felt unsure about whether to move my face away or leave it there. Would it be weird to kiss her finger? Yes, I decided. It would be a bit weird. I looked at her, but she was staring through the hedge. Cornish had stepped into his back garden. In one hand he held a transparent bag with a red exercise book inside. He took three carefully measured steps into the garden, and dropped the bag.
Scarlett moved her finger away, but threw me a glance warning me not to speak. Cornish thrust his spade into the grass and began to dig a hole. When he stopped, he picked up the book in the bag, chucked it in, and quickly shovelled the soil back over.
Once he had patted it down, he took another step back in the direction of the house and dug a second hole. Having reached a similar depth, he dropped his spade and knelt down, only to pull out of this hole what looked like the same book in the same bag. Mr Cornish carried it back inside.
‘What was that? What happened?’ I asked.
‘He buried a book, then dug it up,’ replied Scarlett simply.
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps he wanted to grow a book tree.’
‘But … but it moved,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Scarlett.
‘How is that possible?’
‘It will make it easier if you don’t ask questions that I’m not going to answer,’ stated Scarlett.
‘How do I know if it’s a question you won’t answer?’
‘Perhaps avoid all of them just in case.’
‘Maybe Mr Cornish is some kind of magician,’ I said, careful not to phrase it as a question.
‘Maybe,’ replied Scarlett.
‘Is he?’
‘No, and that’s still a question.’
‘So you understand what’s going on but you won’t tell me. Is that it?’
‘I understand some of what is going on, and I will tell you this: burying books is pretty old hat where I’m from and the fact he thought your mother was alive is interesting. But what I really need to know is what he wrote in that book.’
When the kitchen light went off, Scarlett stood up and hurried across the marsh. She didn’t wait for me but nor was she surprised when I followed her.
This was far too interesting to give up.
The Word Protocol
Growing up in Wellcome Valley, you got used to inventing things to occupy your time, but Scarlett’s project felt different to Angus’s. She wasn’t climbing trees to kill time. I could tell she had a job to do. We stood out of sight, watching Cornish drive away, then she took out a small notepad and pen from an inside pocket and scribbled something in it.
‘What are you writing?’ I asked.
Scarlett didn’t even bother responding this time. She flipped the book shut and returned it to her pocket.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said. ‘You wrote down his registration plate.’
‘Why would I do that when the book is in the house?’ she responded.
‘I give up, then.’
‘I wish you would. Look, in a minute I’m going to do something inexplicable, then I’m going to break the law.’
‘Cool.’
‘No, not cool, Eddie,’ she said, her temper surfacing in her eyes and her nostrils flaring. ‘I’m running out of ways to tell you to go away.’
‘Admit it, I’m growing on you,’ I said.
Her smile was short-lived. ‘I’ve got to get into that house to look at the book,’ she said.
‘You’re going to break into his house?’
‘I wasn’t planning on breaking anything.’
‘You remember that talk on Thursday? We do have police here.’
‘How do you know I don’t work for the police?’
‘Because you’re too young.’
Scarlett bit her lip and looked down. ‘Eddie, do you know what the word protocol means?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course. Protocol. I know what it means. Protocol. Er, protocol.’
‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘A protocol is like a rule. And there are protocols about what I can and can’t tell you.’
‘Who made these rules?’
‘I can’t tell you. That’s one of the protocols.’
‘So, just to get this straight, you can’t tell me who’s told you not to tell me all the things you can’t tell me? Is that right?’
‘C
orrect.’
‘How will you get into the house then? Will you open the door with a credit card or something?’
‘I don’t know how to do that,’ said Scarlett, ‘and you watch too much TV. You need a key to get into a house.’ Scarlett checked the time on her watch. ‘Ah, here we go. Remember, no questions.’
That far down in the valley, the roar of the approaching motorbike echoed off the hills and made it sound as though it was all around, coming from every direction at once. When it appeared around the corner, I saw its rider dressed in black leather with the helmet visor down. He stopped directly in front of us and pulled something from his pocket, which he handed to Scarlett. I looked up at his face, but all I saw was my own reflection.
‘Thank you,’ said Scarlett.
The biker didn’t speak but I felt as though he was looking at me.
‘I’ve got it under control,’ said Scarlett firmly. ‘You can go now.’
The motorcyclist nodded, twisted his wrist and accelerated away. He was gone as suddenly and noisily as he had arrived and soon the sound of the engine blended into the hiss of the constant rainfall. When Scarlett held up the object that had been dropped into her hand, I saw that it was a key. She winked at me and made her way down the path.
‘Is that a magic notepad, then? Anything you write down gets delivered?’
‘If it helps you to think that, yes.’
‘So, if you wrote down pizza, that guy would come back with a pizza.’
‘It would be easier to order a pizza from the pizza place but yes, in theory. Now, try to act naturally.’
‘What could be more natural than a mysterious man on a motorbike delivering a key to someone’s house, then us using it go inside?’ I followed her down the path and inside Mr Cornish’s house.
‘I always wondered how my life of crime would start,’ I said.
‘You’re talking a lot because you’re nervous,’ said Scarlett. ‘It’s perfectly normal but try not to.’
‘Why? Are you worried someone might hear?’ I whispered.
‘No. It’s just a bit annoying,’ she replied.
‘So what now? Should we split up and search?’
‘No need. The book’s on the coffee table. He clearly doesn’t expect anyone to be following him. That should make this easier.’
She picked up the red notebook. I edged nearer to look. Inside, Mr Cornish had written in his usual scrawl:
Primary target already dead. Please advise.
Below this, another pen had written:
Continue with project. Terminate secondary target.
‘Do you know what that means?’ I asked.
‘Yes. It means I have to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘To the museum.’
‘What museum?’ I asked. ‘There’s no museum around here.’
‘Not yet, there isn’t.’
Cat Theft
During the trial, Liphook had been asked to give an exact account of how she had come to arrive on the scene the day David Maguire was killed. She had begun with the first call out of the day, when an elderly lady by the name of Mrs Spinks reported her car as stolen from outside the corner shop.
Liphook parked her patrol car and walked into the shop, where Mrs Spinks was in a state of mild hysteria. The shop owner was doing his best to comfort her but he looked extremely relieved to hand over responsibility to a uniformed officer. Liphook quickly established the facts. Mrs Spinks was seventy-eight years old and her car had been stolen. Not the crime of the century but better than nothing.
‘Where was the vehicle when it was taken?’ Liphook hoped she sounded calm, serious and yet fully in control of the situation.
‘There. Where you’ve parked now,’ exclaimed Mrs Spinks, pointing out of the window. ‘My poor darling. He could be anywhere.’
‘And where were you?’
‘Inside the shop, you silly girl. Where else would I do my shopping? Are you sure you’re a real police officer?’
‘Very much so, Mrs Spinks, but I do need to establish exactly what happened.’
‘I parked my car outside and came in to buy a bottle of the blue top. Not the green top. He doesn’t like the green top and no one likes the red top really, do they? Well, supermodels, perhaps.’
Liphook was having difficulty following her. ‘Are you talking about milk?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You were buying milk for your car?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that? The milk was for Rascal.’
‘Who’s Rascal?’ Liphook was getting confused.
‘My cat. That’s why you’re here. Keep up, dear.’
‘I thought you reported a stolen car.’
‘He said you wouldn’t care if I only told you about Rascal.’ She pointed to the shopkeeper. ‘Is that true? I’ve paid taxes all my life to keep you lot in jobs. Don’t you care about cats?’
The shopkeeper smiled sympathetically and shrugged.
Liphook turned back to Mrs Spinks. ‘So you drove here to buy milk for your cat and then what?’
‘They took Rascal.’
‘From your house?’
‘Why would they go to my house?’
‘Mrs Spinks, was your cat in the car?’
‘Yes, he likes to sit in the back seat.’ A worried expression crossed the old lady’s face. ‘I say, do you suppose it was professional cat thieves? Rascal’s parents were both pedigree, you know.’
‘I think it’s more likely they wanted the car and didn’t realise it had a cat in the back.’
‘How will he ever find his way home?’ asked Mrs Spinks. ‘He never goes very far. He’ll be terrified.’
‘Mrs Spinks, please try to stay calm. So how long did you leave your car unattended?’
‘Only a couple of minutes. How long do you think it takes to buy milk?’
‘A couple of minutes is very fast for someone to break into a car, hot-wire it and drive off.’
‘What does hot-wire mean?’
‘It’s how a car thief starts a car without a key.’
Mrs Spinks looked quizzically at Liphook. ‘Why wouldn’t they use the key?’
Liphook looked up from her notepad. ‘How would they get the key?’
‘It was in the car. I find that if I take it out I can never find it again.’
‘Are you saying that you left the car outside the shop with the key in the ignition?’
‘Of course. How else could the engine be running?’
‘The engine was running?’ exclaimed Liphook.
‘Oh yes, Rascal likes the vibration. I suppose it’s a bit like purring, isn’t it? Poor Rascal, he’ll be frightened out of his wits.’
‘I promise that we’ll do everything we can to recover your car and your cat, but I will need your registration number.’
‘Rascal doesn’t have a registration number.’
‘Of the car.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs Spinks dismissively.
‘A description, then.’
‘Yes, of course. Dark tabby, a cross between a Maine Coon and a Siamese. Very friendly but a little jealous sometimes. Likes fish but not the processed kind. I get it from the fishmongers.’
Liphook jotted down the details. ‘And the car?’
‘Oh, I see. It’s red and it has a cat in the back.’
A Cat Called Rascal
Scarlett unlocked the small red car parked outside Cornish’s house and got in.
‘You drive?’ I said.
It was amazing. Each time I thought she couldn’t do anything else to surprise me, she did something even more surprising.
‘I really need you to go away now,’ she replied, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.
I quickly got into the car before she had the chance to drive off without me. ‘You’re not old enough to drive,’ I said.
‘And you’re not stupid enough to get into a stolen car,’ she replied.
‘It’s stolen?
’
‘Yes. Do you still want to come? This is your last chance to get out. I really don’t have time to argue with you.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
‘Eddie Dane, you are the stubbornest person I have ever met.’
Weirdly, even though she shouted the words and banged the dashboard in frustration, I didn’t really feel as though she was genuinely angry. She sounded amused, as though she was repeating an often-told joke between us. I liked it. She turned the key and started the engine with the confidence of someone who had been starting cars all her life.
‘You were joking about it being stolen, weren’t you?’ I said.
‘Which answer do you want?’
‘The one that means you’ve borrowed your mum’s car or something.’
‘Fine. Then I did that.’
‘That’s not true, is it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Did the car key get delivered by another one of your magic motorbike people?’ I asked.
‘Don’t call him that, and no. It was in the ignition.’ The noise the car made when Scarlett put her foot down suggested it was unused to being driven at such speed. Everything rattled in a terrified protest against her driving.
‘Did Bill teach you to drive?’
‘Actually, I had a very good teacher,’ she replied, keeping her eyes on the road.
I gripped the side as she took another corner without slowing down.
‘Aren’t there protocols about this?’ I asked.
‘To be honest there are protocols about more or less everything, but you’ve got to have a little bit of fun too, otherwise what’s the point? I’m sorry, am I making you nervous?’
The truth was that Scarlett didn’t need to break the speed limit in a stolen car to make me feel nervous, but it wasn’t the kind of nervous that made me want to get away. It was the kind of nervous that made me want to stay for ever.
‘Do you remember me saying my mum died in a car crash?’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean that it was a family tradition or anything.’
She laughed. ‘What do you know about your mother, Eddie?’
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