Jenny leaned back and drew up her legs. ‘You’re good.’
‘I’m damned good,’ said Barbara. ‘But unless you tell me what’s wrong I won’t be able to help.’
Jenny sipped her champagne. ‘This is going to sound crazy,’ she said.
This time it was Barbara who laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many of my patients start off by saying that,’ she said. ‘The thing is, most of them ARE crazy.’
‘I might be, too,’ said Jenny. She sighed and then took a deep breath. ‘Okay, this is it. Jack is being really weird about Uncle Marcus. He keeps asking me if I’m seeing him and he went very strange when Uncle Marcus turned up at our office unannounced.’
‘Marcus? He’s a sweetie. He’s a bit pompous but he wouldn’t harm a fly.’
‘That’s what I keep telling Jack. I’ve known him since before I could walk. He’s one of Daddy’s oldest friends.’
‘And what’s Jack’s problem with him?’
‘Jack won’t say. He does that Jack thing of just changing the subject or making a joke. But here’s the thing, Barbara. Now I’ve been having … I don’t know what they are. Flashbacks? Déjà vu? Just a feeling that there’s something wrong.’
‘In what way?’
Jenny sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s the crazy thing. I don’t know. It’s a feeling of … I don’t know … dread, I guess. Uncle Marcus is in Norfolk today doing some shooting with Daddy and his friends and I was supposed to be there.’
‘And you changed your mind?’
‘I keep getting these feelings, Barbara. A sense that something is wrong.’
‘Dread, you said.’
‘I know, it sounds silly. And really, I can’t put my finger on it.’ She sipped her champagne and sighed. ‘Maybe it’s just Jack’s silliness rubbing off on me. Like you said, Uncle Marcus is a sweetie.’
‘Jack has never said anything concrete about Marcus?’
‘Never.’
‘And you don’t feel uncomfortable when you’re around Marcus?’
‘Uncle Marcus? Of course not. He’s my godfather, Barbara.’
‘But the fact that you’re here suggests that subconsciously at least there is something wrong.’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I guess.’ She sighed again. ‘I thought that maybe you could do that regression thing of yours. Put me under and see if you can find out what’s causing this.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘You do it with your patients all the time.’
‘Not all the time,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s not helpful in all cases.’
‘But if there is something worrying me then it would be one way of getting to the bottom of it, wouldn’t it?’
Barbara nodded and put her champagne down on the coffee table. She went into her consulting room and returned with a small digital recorder.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Jenny.
‘When you come out of it you won’t remember anything,’ said Barbara, sitting down in the armchair facing the sofa. ‘I’ll be able to play the recording back to you.’
‘We’re going to do it now?’ asked Jenny.
‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Barbara. ‘Kick off your shoes, lie back and let’s see how we go.’
67
Jack Nightingale was eating a bacon sandwich and watching football on Sky Sports when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call anyway. ‘Jack? It’s Barbara.’
It took Nightingale a couple of seconds to pull the name from his memory – Barbara McEvoy, one of Jenny’s oldest friends. ‘Barbara, how the hell are you? Long time no hear.’
‘I need to see you, Jack. Now.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘Is it about Jenny?’
‘Just get yourself over here now, Jack. Now.’
Nightingale left his half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table, grabbed his raincoat and hurried downstairs. He flagged down a black cab in Inverness Terrace and fifteen minutes later it dropped him close to the Portobello Road. It was market day, and the street was packed with tourists and locals milling around the stalls selling antiques, bric-a-brac and cheap clothing. He threaded his way through the crowds and down the side street where Barbara lived.
She buzzed him in and had the door open for him when he reached her second-floor flat. ‘Is everything okay?’ asked Nightingale. ‘You sounded a bit panicky on the phone.’
‘Go through to the sitting room,’ she said, closing the door behind him.
‘Is Jenny here?’
‘She left just before I phoned you,’ said Barbara.
‘Is she okay?’
‘She’s fine. Or at least she thinks she’s fine.’
‘Barbara, you’re talking in riddles.’
He turned to look at her but she put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him into the sitting room. ‘Sit,’ she said, pointing at the sofa.
Nightingale did as he was told, but then stood up again to take off his raincoat. Barbara dropped down onto the armchair. ‘What do you know about Marcus Fairchild?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’ He put his coat on the arm of the sofa and sat down.
‘Marcus Fairchild. Uncle Marcus. Jenny’s godfather. She said you had a thing about him, you thought he wasn’t to be trusted.’
‘Is that what this is about? Jenny’s asked you to give me a bollocking?’
Barbara shook her head and looked at a small digital recorder on the coffee table. ‘That’s not it, Jack. Jenny doesn’t know you’re here.’
‘What’s happening, Barbara?’ asked Nightingale. He frowned as he looked at the small metal recorder.
Barbara sighed and sat back in the armchair, crossing her arms. Nightingale didn’t have to be an expert in body language to know that something was troubling her.
Barbara sighed again and slowly shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it, Jack. I don’t want to believe it.’
‘You regressed her,’ said Nightingale.
Barbara’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You regressed her and she remembered what Fairchild has been doing to her.’
Barbara shook her head in amazement. ‘Have you suddenly become psychic?’ she asked. She leaned forward and picked up the recorder. ‘You need to listen to this.’ She held out the recorder to him but Nightingale didn’t take it. ‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘I know what’s on it. You regressed Jenny and she remembered Fairchild abusing her. He’s been doing it since she was a child. She doesn’t remember because he does something to her. Hypnosis or drugs.’
‘You knew about this and you didn’t say anything?’
‘Did you tell her?’
Barbara didn’t reply and avoided looking at him.
‘The fact that I’m here on my own suggests that you haven’t told her. Why?’
‘I wanted to talk to you first.’
‘Because you know that if you tell her it’ll destroy her, right?’ Barbara nodded. ‘So you regressed her, then what? Doesn’t she remember?’
‘I took her back to the last time she met Fairchild at her parents’ house in Norfolk. Fairchild went into her bedroom late at night.’ She winced. ‘The things he did to her, Jack. He’s an evil bastard.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Then I regressed her back to when she was a teenager. And younger. Fairchild is always there, Jack. Abusing her. I don’t understand how he manages to get away with it.’
‘He uses hypnotism. Or drugs. Or a combination of the two.’
‘When I brought Jenny back, she didn’t remember anything. And I kept it that way.’
‘You lied to her?’
‘I can’t tell her what happened, Jack. Not without a lot of preparation. When she finds out, it could destroy her.’
‘So why regress her in the first place?’
‘She asked me to. She’s starting to get a feeling that something isn’t right. Maybe because o
f the comments that you’ve been making. But I lied. I said she remembered nothing of any significance.’ She gestured at the recorder. ‘I told her that I’d switched off the recorder because there was nothing of interest on it.’
‘And she believed you?’
‘I’m her friend, Jack. Of course she believed me.’ She forced a smile. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘You’re not going to do anything, Barbara. You’re going to destroy that recording and try to forget what you heard.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Not long. And like you, I don’t know what to do about it. The cops won’t take a regression session as evidence, and even if you play that tape to her she still won’t remember. There’s no forensic evidence, no physical signs of abuse. And he’s Marcus Fairchild, a top QC with a lot of very influential friends.’
‘You’re going to do something though, right?’
Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘It’s in hand.’
‘What? What are you going to do?’
‘Best you don’t know, Barbara. Best you forget about it. But trust me, I’ll take care of it.’
68
Kathy Gibson pointed at the semi-detached house ahead of them. ‘There you go, number twenty-six, park anywhere near here,’ she said.
The photographer’s name was Dave McEwan, a dour Scot. He was a freelance but pretty much worked full-time for the Express. Kathy was staff and had been for six years, but she was considering an offer to move to the Mail on Sunday. The Bella Harper interview was just what she needed to get the Mail to increase their offer.
McEwan found a parking spot and reversed into it. Kathy checked her make-up in the overhead mirror while McEwan pulled his camera bag out of the boot.
‘Let’s get the family shots done right off,’ said Kathy. ‘It’ll give me the chance to get them talking. Then we’ll do the interview, then maybe hit the park.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said McEwan. ‘You got an angle?’
‘Pretty much writes itself,’ said Kathy. ‘Kidnap girl back in the bosom of her family, hopes and plans for the future. Great Sunday for Monday feature. We’re pretty much guaranteed a good show. Piece on the front and a centre spread.’
‘How much are they getting paid?’
‘You’re such a cynic.’
‘Just asking.’
‘Twenty-five grand is what I heard.’
McEwan grimaced. ‘Not much for what she went through,’ said Kathy.
‘That’s the thing. No one knows for sure what he did to her.’
‘They said raped, right? That was the charge, wasn’t it? Rape and abduction.’
‘One of my cop contacts says she was dead. Says that when they got into the house she was dead but the paramedic bought her round.’
‘Bastards,’ said McEwan. ‘It’s the woman I don’t get. Why would she help a paedophile?’
‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ said Kathy. ‘I’d hang the two of them without a moment’s thought. Have you got kids?’
‘In theory,’ said McEwan. ‘The wife has them now and I get to see them every second weekend. You?’
‘No, but I’ve got nieces that are Bella’s age and if anything happened to them …’ She shuddered. They reached the front door and Kathy pressed the bell.
Bella’s mother answered the door. Kathy remembered her from the numerous television appearances she’d made with her husband when her daughter was missing. She’d looked drawn and haggard back then, dark patches under her eyes from lack of sleep, her skin blotchy, her hair greasy and unkempt. But now she looked ten years younger, her hair was glossy, and she smiled brightly as Kathy introduced herself and the photographer.
Sandra shook hands with them both and showed them into her neat semi-detached home. Her husband was sitting on the sofa next to Bella. He’d put on weight since Bella had been found, and looked a lot happier. Like most of the viewing population, at the time Kathy had suspected that Will Harper had been involved in his daughter’s disappearance. It was almost a cliché that the male family member who appeared most often on television when a child had been killed turned out to be the murderer. Bella’s case had been unusual in two respects – she had come back and her kidnappers had been total strangers.
Will stood up and shook hands with them both. He was good-looking, tall with an unruly mop of chestnut hair that kept falling over his eyes, and Kathy knew that he’d photograph well.
‘And this is Bella,’ said Sandra.
Bella smiled up at them. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.
Sandra offered them tea but Kathy said that they’d rather get on with the photographs first. She handed them over to McEwan and he ran through what he wanted. A family shot on the sofa, Bella playing with her toys, perhaps a walk to the park later.
‘What about Floppy?’ said Bella. ‘What about a photograph of me and Floppy?’
‘Floppy’s a rabbit?’ Bella nodded. McEwan said that was a great idea, and he spent the next hour taking the photographs as Kathy gently teased out the quotes that she wanted. How their prayers had been answered, how Bella’s abductors should be given the death penalty, how grateful they were to the police. It was all stock stuff but Kathy knew that it would be a good read. So many abducted children stories ended badly, and it was a pleasant change to write about a success story. Kathy intended to skip over what had happened to Bella during the hours she’d been held captive. She could only imagine the horrors that the nine-year-old had gone through, and her news editor had made it clear that she wasn’t to spell out the details.
McEwan took them out into the back garden to get pictures of Bella cuddling her rabbit. As Bella brushed her cheek against the animal’s soft white fur, she smiled over at Kathy. ‘I saw an angel,’ said Bella.
‘That’s nice,’ said Kathy.
‘Really. An angel came to see me.’
Kathy looked over at Bella’s mother. The mother smiled uncomfortably. ‘A real angel, with wings and a halo?’
‘No halo, but wings, yes. Really long wings with white feathers. Michael is an archangel, one of the top angels.’
‘And this was in a dream, was it?’
Bella shook her head. ‘It was real. But in my head. Do you understand?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Kathy.
‘Michael said that I was dead. But that I wasn’t to be scared. He said Jesus wanted to talk to me.’
‘Jesus?’
Bella nodded excitedly. ‘Yes, Jesus Christ. He wanted to talk to me.’
‘And Michael took you to see him?’
‘We went to this huge white house. More like a palace. Everything was white and so clean and there were other angels there. And my Grandpa Arthur. And Auntie Eadie.’
Kathy looked over at Sandra, frowning.
‘Grandpa Arthur is my husband’s grandfather. Auntie Eadie was …’ She shrugged, wondering how she was going to explain it. ‘My mother had a baby before me. A girl. Eadie. She died very young. Bella never knew her.’ She shrugged again. ‘I can’t explain it, but that what she says happened.’
McEwan finished taking pictures of Kathy and the rabbit. ‘How about the park now?’ he asked.
‘You know what, I’m parched,’ said Kathy. She smiled at Sandra. ‘Don’t suppose there’s a chance of a cup of tea now?’
‘Of course,’ said Sandra. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
McEwan flashed Kathy an annoyed look but she smiled sweetly and touched him gently on the arm. ‘I want to keep them talking,’ she said. ‘Give me a few minutes, then we’ll head to the park.’
‘I’m worried about the light,’ he said, looking up at the grey clouds that were gathering overhead. ‘And it might rain.’
‘Half an hour, tops,’ said Kathy.
They followed Sandra and Bella into the kitchen. Bella sat down at the table and Kathy sat next to her. ‘Surely someone must have told Bella about this Grandpa Arthur and Auntie Eadie?’ she said to Sandra.
&n
bsp; Sandra shook her head. ‘Never. Even I didn’t know that my mum had had another baby. And Will didn’t know the name of his grandfather. But we checked and yes, his paternal grandfather was Arthur Harper. He died long before Will was born.’ She turned on the kettle.
‘They were really nice to me,’ said Bella. ‘They said they would look after me when it was time for me to stay there but it wasn’t time yet.’
‘Bella, are you saying you were in Heaven?’
‘I don’t know where I was. It was a palace, I guess. But I don’t know where the palace was.’
Kathy frowned and ran a hand through her hair. What had started out as a simple family reunion story was becoming much more complex, and she wasn’t sure how the features editor was going to react if the story took a religious turn.
‘Perhaps we should talk about what you’re going to do this year,’ said Kathy. ‘What about Disneyland? Is that somewhere you’d like to go?’
‘Don’t you want to talk about Jesus?’ asked Bella.
‘We can talk about anything you want,’ said Kathy. ‘What about when you’re a grown-up, what do you want to do?’
‘I want to be a good person, like Jesus,’ said Kathy. ‘Jesus loves you, Kathy.’ She looked over at the photographer. ‘He loves you too, Dave.’
‘Good to know,’ said the photographer.
Bella smiled at him, then turned back to Kathy. ‘Jesus wants us all to be happy.’
‘I’m sure he does.’
‘He thinks there are lots of things wrong with the world and that we need to fix them.’
‘That’s interesting, Bella. Really. But let’s talk about you and what your plans are.’
‘Do you want to know what Jesus told me?’ asked Bella.
Kathy forced a smile. It was the last thing she wanted to know, but she needed to keep the little girl talking. ‘Sure,’ she said.
Bella crooked her little finger and beckoned her to move closer. ‘I have to whisper it,’ she said.
69
Bernie Fowles screwed up his face. ‘She said what?’ Fowles was the Express’s features editor. He was in his fifties and was an old school journalist, known to keep a bottle of Bell’s in the bottom drawer of his desk even though alcohol was banned on the premises. His liking for whisky was written on his face – his cheeks were perpetually flushed and his nose was flecked with broken veins.
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