by Jane Adams
Mike frowned, then looked at the map with more interest. ‘What it probably means is, she’s found herself somewhere warm and dry to hole up at night and travels out from there.’ Somewhere she could hide a child? Mike stood up, impatient now and studied the map again.
‘We’ve everyone we can spare still searching outbuildings and we’ve got local help organized in every village in a ten-mile radius.’ Bill shook his head. ‘You’d never believe what people dump.’
Mike snorted again. He’d suggested that Bill and the other area constabulary men organize their own teams and local volunteers. They knew the area, every copse, every derelict bam. He’d given orders that any item of clothing, anything in fact that looked out of place, be photographed, its location marked, and the item bagged up and sent to divisional. What SOCOs that could be spared, he’d tasked closer to the village. So far they’d turned up nothing but a big blank — an assorted jumble of old shoes and discarded knickers. Nothing identifiable as Sara’s. Mike had chosen to see that as encouraging, though he recognized that right now he was willing to see anything that wasn’t actually negative as encouraging. Bill was looking thoughtfully at him.
‘Word is the Maltham woman’s been acting a little strange.’
Mike looked sharply at him. ‘Well, I suggest you make sure word stops,’ he said.
Bill’s eyebrows raised fractionally.
‘OK,’ Mike said wearily. ‘I waited for Doc Fordham to arrive, had a talk with Fergus Maltham after. It seems Cassie Maltham spent a little time in a secure unit being treated for some form of schizophrenia.’
‘Oh?’ Bill perked up. ‘Well, that looks promising.’ Mike glared at him, then sighed. He’d expected better from Bill but the reaction was, he knew, likely to be a common one.
‘Schizophrenia, Bill. It’s an illness, not a crime.’
‘Well, I know that, Mike, but it’s still worth looking at.’ He paused, sensing there was more, taking on board the implications as Mike had done earlier. ‘It’s not something you can keep quiet, Mike. From what I hear she was wandering about on the Greenway, got through our cordon somehow.’
Mike nodded. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘I find far more relevant to the case than Cassie Maltham’s previous mental state. Just how did she get through?’
The officers stationed at both ends of the pathway had sworn till they were blue that they’d not left their position. Mike was inclined to believe them. It was conceivable that they might be mistaken, or lying, but add to that the presence of assorted pressmen on both roads and locals making their way to work, taking their kids to school, and it seemed unlikely they were wrong.
The Malthams had been pestered repeatedly to make statements and he’d been seen taking Cassie back to the caravan in his car. Several times that day he’d found himself being asked if she’d remembered something that helped with the case, all of the enquiries came from her being seen in his car; none from her being spotted wandering barefoot on Tan’s hill. If there was another way onto the Greenway it meant another way of taking a child off the path without her being seen.
‘She say how she got there?’ Bill asked.
Mike frowned. ‘To be truthful, Bill, she wasn’t in much of a state to tell me anything.’ He saw Bill’s half triumphant look and added hastily, ‘Oh, she was rational enough by the time I’d got her back to the car. She knows what’s happening to her, it seems to me she’s doing everything she can to get a grip on things.’ He frowned again. ‘Strangest thing was up on the hill, it was as though she was sleepwalking or something, then when I spoke to her, it was as if she’d woken up from some deep sleep and was horrified to find herself there.’
Bill shrugged. ‘Could be a put on.’
‘Could be, Bill. I’m not ruling anything out.’
‘How come her old man didn’t miss her?’
‘It seems he’d gone down to the village, left her asleep. She’s not been sleeping well and he thought she’d be better catching up. When he got back she was gone, he’d just started out to look for her when we turned up.’
Bill was frowning thoughtfully, concentration wrinkling the already furrowed face into even deeper lines.
‘She’d still have needed an accomplice,’ he said. ‘No way could she have been in two places at the one time.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘Not even with a split personality!’ Mike glowered at him, then allowed a brief smile. ‘No. Which means we either assume we’re looking for an accomplice or we cross Cassie Maltham off our list.’ He went back to his desk, picked up the artist’s impression of Cassie’s dream woman.
‘You releasing that?’ Bill asked him.
Mike nodded. ‘Flint wants it to go out. Doesn’t believe it means anything but it’s something to keep the wolves quiet.’
He flexed his shoulders and smiled wryly. ‘I think we might just spare them the story of where it came from though,’ he said as he left the office. Bill’s laughter echoed behind him.
* * *
Fergus was cooking, trying to coax the ageing Calor gas stove to give out something like an even heat in two directions at the same time. It seemed you could have either grill or gas burners at even pressure, not both. He tried shuffling the pans around so that he could squeeze the tiny kettle on as well, spent time puzzling over the best arrangement, welcoming the rather meaningless activity and the way it took his mind off his real problems.
Cassie stood in the doorway watching him. It was several minutes before he became aware of her, giving time for her amusement at this over-tall man, squeezed into this over-small kitchen. She laughed aloud and Fergus almost dropped the pan he was holding.
‘Cassie,’ He smiled broadly at her, put the pan down and went over to hug her, enjoying the warmth of her through the thin silk of her red kimono.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, keeping his voice gentle as though speaking to an invalid.
‘Better. Here, let me help with that.’
She pulled away from him, crossed to the stove and started checking the contents of the pans, suddenly impatient.
Fergus watched her for a moment then said, ‘I was worried about you.’ His words sounded weak, ineffectual, conveying nothing of the turmoil his thoughts found themselves in.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He waited, but there was no more. She might have been apologizing for a minor accident, a moment of clumsiness. Fergus felt his normally placid self begin to slide away and spoke with more irritation than he normally allowed Cassie to hear in his voice.
‘Sorry! That’s all you can say? That you’re sorry?’
Surprised, she turned to look at him, then went on fiddling with the pans, pretending to be occupied. Fergus could see her hands were shaking, felt a moment of pity, but his own pain was too close to the surface for him to suppress it.
‘Well?’ He paused, but again she made no answer, just stood still now, hands loose at her sides. ‘Do you know how scared I was, Cassie? Can you even think how much you frightened me going off like that. God! I had visions of them finding you at the bottom of the cliff. Anything.’ He crossed over to her, placed his hands almost too gently on her shoulders. ‘Cassie, if I lost you . . .’
She turned towards him, eyes pleading. ‘I don’t know what happened, Fergus. I just found myself there. I remember dreaming about the woman again, then, next thing I know I’m on the hill and Mike Croft’s standing staring at me like I’ve gone completely crazy or something. I didn’t mean to go. I didn’t know I was going.’
Fergus looked down at her, felt his anger dissipate as swiftly as it had come. What was the use of it anyway? He began to marshal his thoughts for the questions he knew he had to ask her and held her close, fingers stroking her curls, tugging them straight, releasing them to spring back.
‘Oh, Cass. Ignore me, love, it’s just the fear talking, you know that.’ He felt her nod, then holding her away from himself slightly, plunged straight in. ‘He said you heard voices, heard Suzie calling to you.’ He so desp
erately wanted her to deny it. Auditory hallucinations, Dr Lucas had called them, he remembered that, it had been one of the later symptoms of Cassie’s illness. She smiled, a little wearily, and shook her head, turning now to rescue their meal from the very real threat of burning.
‘It wasn’t like that. Not like last time. Fergus, I’m not sick.’ She paused, moving the pans onto the counter. ‘Hope you like soggy potatoes.’
‘Mash them.’
‘I’m not getting sick,’ she repeated. ‘Confused -I don’t know what’s going on in my head — but it’s not like before.’
He frowned. Looked sharply at her, wanting to believe. It was true as far as it went. This wasn’t like the psychosis she’d experienced last time. That had been insidious, so slow and so subtle he’d been able to convince himself that there was nothing really wrong until her condition had become serious. Her self-loathing had become so strong he’d not dared to leave her. No, this wasn’t like that. But did these things always follow the same pattern? Last time, there had been a kind of religious mania, a ritualization of actions, seeing of signs and omens in the most everyday experiences. Would it happen like that again?
Cassie sighed in exasperation, handed him a fork. ‘Sorry this place doesn’t run to sophisticated gadgets like potato mashers.’ She looked sideways at him, then turned to face him fully, a half smile playing around the corners of her full mouth. ‘Now, listen here, Mr Fergus Maltham. Your wife isn’t nuts, isn’t about to get nuts and isn’t about to find mystical significance in the absence of ordinary cutlery. But if you keep her waiting for her dinner much longer, she’s likely to get real mad and feed your share to the seagulls. Now, get mashing.’
Fergus laughed in spite of himself and was rewarded by Cassie smiling properly at him. ‘We’ve come too far, love, I’m not about to throw it away. If I thought for one moment I needed help, we’d be in that car and driving back to Doctor Lucas faster than you could even think of it.’
He hesitated for a moment, then said softly, ‘But what if you don’t know? Cassie, maybe you’re not the best person to recognize the signs . . .’
‘Then you tell me. You think I’m crazy?’
He hesitated again, then shook his head. ‘No, Cassie. I don’t know what’s going on and I know you’ve been disturbed by this. I think maybe we should phone Doctor Lucas, get some advice?’
She nodded. It made sense. ‘It was more like sleepwalking,’ she said. ‘More like I was dreaming. When I was a kid I used to do that. My mum used to have to lock the doors and shut all the windows or I’d be gone. Usually I’d wake up in the next street or something.’
‘You told me that they said it started when your father walked out, right?’
Cassie nodded. ‘Not so uncommon, I’m told. Bit like some kids start wetting the bed when something bad happens.’ She took the potatoes from him, began to serve them. ‘I figure it must be something like that. Something bad’s happened and I’m dreaming about it, the dreams are getting a bit too real and I’m walking, trying to look for a physical solution.’
‘It makes a kind of sense,’ he admitted and carried the plates to the table. What Cassie was saying did make sense. If only he could be sure. Doubt wrote itself like an insult at the corners of his mouth, drawing them down tightly. Whatever happened, he promised himself, they could beat it. But he remembered the long process Cassie had been through before. The drugs, the therapy, the daily hospital visits to a woman he no longer recognized as his wife. Cassie’s own long journey of rediscovery, of remembering who she was, who he was, what they’d had together. He loved her, more than he could find words for, but, remembering all of that, he wondered if he had the strength to help her fight the demons a second time.
It’s not going to happen again he told himself. She was just sleepwalking this time.
He carried the tea things to the table, forcing himself to smile at his wife, intent on manufacturing an aura of comforting deceit and knowing that she could see straight through it. She looked away, forcing herself to concentrate on her food though the effort to swallow almost choked her.
‘I’ll pour the tea,’ Fergus said softly.
Chapter 12
The news broke early. Another child missing, the village already in turmoil and no hope this time of doing anything unhampered by the pressmen camped in close proximity to the incident room. Mike had again stayed at Tynan’s. Bill Enfield called him there and he and Tynan drove straight over. It was just after seven-thirty a.m. The child, Julie Hart, had been reported missing less than an hour before.
‘How long has she been gone?’
Bill shrugged. ‘Impossible to say. Her mother went to wake her for school and found the bed empty, Julie nowhere to be found.’
Mike frowned. There may be no connection, the child might simply have wandered off somewhere. He gestured towards the incident room. ‘The mother’s there?’
Bill nodded. ‘The Cassidys too.’ He grimaced at Mike’s sharp look. ‘Not a lot I could do about it, sir, feelings running pretty high.’
‘Give prizes for understatement around here do they, Sergeant?’ He started towards the village hall, ignoring the questions being hurled at him from all directions.
The Cassidys and Mrs Hart were seated at the far end of the hall. Mrs Hart was in tears, the two women doing their best to comfort one another. Mr Cassidy paced like something too long caged, and turned angrily on Mike the moment he saw him.
‘How many more do there have to be? Our kids go missing and you sit around on your fat arses doing fuck all about it. Why aren’t there more men here? Why haven’t you found the bastard that’s doing this?’
Mike paid him no attention. The man wasn’t about to listen anyway. Instead, he crossed to where the two women sat. ‘Mrs Hart?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Hart, can you tell me what happened? Please, Mr Cassidy, Jim, we’re not doing any good just hurling abuse at each other . . . Mrs Hart?’
Cassidy was still shouting, but it was clear he was winding down, as close to tears as either of the two women. These last few days have aged them, Mike thought. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed by grief and lack of sleep. Dark-shadowed. Mike pushed a chair towards him and he sat down wearily as though suddenly deprived of power.
‘Mrs Hart,’ Mike prompted again, but the woman seemed unable to hold together long enough to answer him. It was Janice Cassidy who spoke for her.
‘She went to wake Julie up as usual and she wasn’t there. She went up and down the street calling for her, came running to us, she hasn’t got a phone, you see.’
Mike nodded. ‘Had her bed been slept in?’
The mother managed a nod, then burst out, ‘She’s a good girl, my Julie, a good girl.’
‘I’m sure she is, Mrs Hart, I’m sure she is.’ He paused for a moment, addressed his next question to Janice Cassidy. ‘You’ve checked that she’s not with friends?’
The woman nodded. ‘First thing we did was phone round all we could think of’. She hugged the distraught woman closer, finding strength to fight her own tears by dealing with someone else’s need.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Jim and me, we’ll take her back to our place. Could you get someone to leave a note for Denny?’
‘Denny?’
‘Her boy. Helps Ben Fields do the milk round. He’ll be back any time now and wonder what the hell’s going on.’
‘Right,’ Mike told her. ‘You take her home with you and I’ll get the doctor sent out, give her something to calm her down. All right to tell Denny to come to you, is it?’
Janice Cassidy nodded, helped Mrs Hart to her feet and began to lead her away. Mike instructed two of his officers to escort them home and relay the message to Denny. He was about to leave when Bill called him aside.
‘You ought to see this.’
He dumped the morning editions on the table. Mike looked. Most carried the image of the dream woman with some variation on the who is this mystery woman? theme.
/> ‘It’s this one, Mike.’
Croft looked; cursed loudly. It had to happen, he knew that, but why now?
‘Seems they tracked down Cassie’s mother, Mrs Junor. Seems she told them every damn thing.’
Mike was reading. It was all there. Cassie’s illness, the symptoms, the inferences, the insinuations: all the things Mike and Fergus had so dreaded.
‘I want someone up at the caravan — nowl Tell the Malthams to stay put.’
‘Right.’
Resolutely, Mike tensed himself for the questions that would be fired at him the moment he left the hall. He wondered just how long it would be before the entire village had read Mrs Junor’s hysterical account of her daughter’s sickness, of the voices she heard, the so-called visions. The writer of this particular ‘exclusive’ had been careful not to make any suggestion that Cassie was violent, a threat to anyone. The account had been sympathetic, a look-what-this-poor-woman-has-had-to-endure angle. The destructive part. The part that made Mike go cold was the juxtaposition on the same page of a brief résumé of famous cases. Murders. Kidnappings. Ritual mutilations. All, of course, carried out by those with some form of mental illness. By those who heard voices, saw visions, had episodes of selective amnesia. The inference was clear and it scared Mike to death.
The phone began to ring. Some intuition told Mike that his superior had just been presented with the same colourful résumé of the ‘facts’. He hurried towards the door, yelling back over his shoulder, ‘I’ve already gone.’ He left the hall and began to push his way through those crowded outside and towards his car, beckoning Tynan to follow.
* * *
‘I have to go, Fergus. Look, just indulge me. I don’t expect you to understand, just go with me.’
He looked anxiously at her. ‘All right, we’ll go. But, Cassie, they probably won’t even let us through the cordon and unless you can remember how you got through last time . . .’
She gave him an exasperated look. ‘It’ll be all right, Fergus. Trust me, I have this feeling about it.’ She saw him frown again, shook her head and began to pull on her clothes. This time she remembered her shoes.