Pulling a silver baton out from its depths, he raised his eyebrows in mock puzzlement, turning first to look at the dancing girls, who grinned between swirls, and then to some of the youngsters in the crowd, who smirked and whispered behind their small hands.
Some of the parents laughed while others clapped their encouragement. The clown turned slightly, so as to play the crowd more thoroughly. Two more charcoal tipped batons appeared while he slapped at the baggy pockets of his patchwork costume, looking, evidently, for a light.
One of the watching band members ambled over, waving a brass Zippo. The rest of the band stopped playing and made a show of elbowing their companions in the ribs as the batons caught with flame.
“Oh boy,” the clown joked loudly, knocking his undersized hat askew as he started, slowly, to juggle with fire. “Anybody got a unicycle? Someone stole the front wheel off mine last week. Bah dum tish.”
Young and old alike laughed as he ducked under one of the twirling batons, allowing it to clatter to the floor. “Didn't see that, did you?”
The band struck up a fresh tune full of trumpets and the rich strumming of double bass, which reminded Ben of the opening scene in the old Bond film Live and Let Die. He leaned against a bakery wall with the sun in his face and the cool stone against his back.
The street carnival was proving to be good distraction. The clown said something he didn't catch, causing one of the girls to stick out her tongue. The kids thought the whole thing was hilarious. It was a shame to leave when it felt so good just standing there watching everybody gladly making fools out of themselves.
But despite the distraction, he didn't want to stay, he wanted to get back behind the Bug's wheel and leave the city behind for another weekend. Too often these days he found himself confronted by one of the growing sub-human horde of glue-sniffing kids who haunted the back alleys, armed with imbecilic grins, tubes of Uhu, and switchblades. Given a few years, Newcastle might catch up with the Capital, but he doubted it and he didn't want to be around if it ever did. His hate-love-hate affair with London had started a long time ago with three skinheads pissing in his face after a terrifying chase through Camden Town. Later the punks had taken to knocking seven shades of the proverbial out of him and grabbing his wallet for their troubles. These days he avoided trips south whenever he possibly could.
He shook his head, thinking instead about Mike.
That at least was a problem he could help with.
- 28 -
“For pity's sake, Kristy. What the hell do you think you're playing at? Face value doesn't count for shit here. That means no taking things on faith, no matter how strong the hunch you think you’ve got. I like you, girl. I do. Honestly. I think you've got something. We're not some bloody scandal rag. One fuck up and we all get burned.”
“So you're telling me to drop it?”
“On what planet did I say that? I'm telling you to bring me the proof. And I want it concrete. No wishy-washy maybes. Unshakeable facts. Pin this guy to the wall and crucify him.”
“If there's a God watching this world, that's a promise.”
“Just be careful.”
“Careful is my middle name.”
“Along with persistent, incisive, dedicated, resourceful and pig-headed, I seem to remember.”
“That's me. Kristy Persistent Incisive Dedicated Resourceful Pig-headed French.”
“Christ your parents must have had some sense of humour.”
Kristy let the tape run on for a few minutes more before giving up on it. She didn't remember having left the mini-cassette running after discovering the deer, and likewise, she had no recollection of recording last night's brief tete-a-tete with Spencer Abel, but the words were on the tape, and, as ever, the advice was sound.
Breakfast had been an omelette and a mug of strong black coffee, and that had been over an hour ago now. Listening to a tape recording of someone else being talked at by Spencer was probably the best way of holding any sort of dialogue with the news editor, she reflected, sinking back into the sofa's bucket seat.
Her story on the wild beast had made three inches in last night's final edition, not that it was particularly fascinating reading, but Abel had offered it in exchange for a twenty four hour hold on the stop press insert, so she took it. And Jason had been right, thirty seconds at the beginning of News at Ten's second half, including one of his less graphic pictures and a warning to the squeamish from the presenter had kept the phone ringing for an hour. It had been followed by a piece that had seen a child psychologist arguing against the current sorry state of television and the revelation that children reaching the age of twelve see somewhere in the region of fifteen thousand murders portrayed on the small screen. There was an irony to the juxtaposition of Jason’s image and the clinical revelation that gave her a warm glow inside.
She had turned off after that, happy to listen to Branford Marsallis loving his saxophone.
She checked the clock on the DVD player again. Jason was late, a habit he'd picked up along the way that was becoming annoyingly usual. She read a couple of pages from a battered Toujours Provence, but put it back on the shelf dissatisfied and unable to concentrate on Mayle's world. She settled for five minutes with Frank Zappa and ten with Little Steven and the rest of the E-Street Band while she flicked through the ten page dossier spanning Brent Richards' apparently brilliant thirty year career.
Reviews for books on the Mind, the Collective Conscious and the Psyche took up the majority of space, though there were a few articles on the illustrious doctor, Kristy's own piece on Havendene the most recent. A Photostat of his three-line entry in the Who's Who had been stapled to the inside cover of the manila folder; not that it gave anything away, either.
RICHARDS, BRENT STEPHEN (DR): BORN 1/4/49: DISTINGUISHED MEMBER OF
THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF MEDICINE: GRADUATED FROM YALE MEDICAL SCHOOL 1961: FOUNDED HAVENDENE INSTITUTE FOR PURPOSES OF MIND RESEARCH (1987): AUTHOR OF SEVERAL KEY TEXTS EXAMINING THE CONSCIOUS MIND, INCLUDING "THE COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUS" (1989) and "THE PSYCHE" (1993).
Laying the file to one side, she reached for the phone and called directory enquiries. She gave the name and address and waited, jotting down Richards' number as the mechanical voice spoon-fed it back to her. Gone were the days of a nice chat with the operator. Of course on any other day she would have simply powered up the laptop and checked it up on the web, removing any pretence at human interaction. It was a weird world they were moving toward, she thought.
Number in hand, Kristy called the good doctor himself, getting as far as the receptionist.
“Good Morning. Havendene. How may I help you?” the words tumbled out as a single invitation, almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to please.
“Ah, good morning. I wonder if you can help me. I'm calling from the Newcastle Gazette. We did a piece on your opening back in February. The thing is, if you are agreeable, we would quite like to do a follow up piece on the clinic. An interview with Dr Richards or something like that.”
“One moment, 'I'll put you through to Dr Richards.”
Kristy said “Thank you,” but the receptionist was gone.
She listened to the dialling cycle twice before a brusque throaty baritone answered:
“Richards speaking.”
“Dr Richards, Kristy French from the Newcastle Gazette here.”
“Ah, yes, the delightful Mizz French. What can I do for you?”
“You might recall I covered the clinic's opening back in February?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Well, my editor has suggested a follow up article, six months on so to speak.”
“And you would like to come and have a look around our modest success story?”
“Basically. Yes.”
“Well that was rather painless. I don't see a problem. Unfortunately, I myself am leaving for Vienna tonight so I will have to leave you in the capable hands of my partner, Dr Nolan. Shall we say Monday, around ten?”
/> “That would be fine.”
“Then Monday at ten it is. I'm sorry I shall miss you Mizz French, but I'm sure Jennifer will be an infinitely superior guide in any case. Now, if you will excuse my ill manners, I must bid you Au Revior, Mizz French, and hope that we shall meet again.”
“Monday at ten; I look forward to it,' she finished the sentence talking to dead line. Kristy wrote the appointment up in her diary and made a note to cancel her trip to the Roman Forum while she waited for Jason. She checked herself in the mirror, smudging out the slight circles of electric blue she had used to emphasize her eyes. Then she padded barefoot into the kitchen to strain off a third cup of filter coffee and turn off the low burner.
Knowing full well the deceptive cold that blustered around Rogan's farm, Kristy had opted for the practicality of a heavy knit sweater, jeans and sneakers, though the sweater was slung over the back of the sofa in favour of anything more sophisticated.
Jason finally pulled up as she laced her sneakers, and then she only knew it was him because the sound of the horn drew her to the window. He didn't make a move to get out of the car, but looked up and waved cheerfully at Kristy just the same.
She grabbed her things together, pulled on the sweater and locked up behind herself as she skipped downstairs.
“See the news last night?” he asked before she had even sat down.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“They were calling it the Hexham Hell Hound on the radio this morning. Citizen Kane's had telex's coming out of his ears all morning. Everyone wants a piece of it. What did I tell you?”
“Not exactly Pulitzer material though, is it.”
“Who cares?”
“Good Question. So how come I got lumbered with you again this morning?”
“Special orders from the higher-ups. They want me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't get up to mischief.”
“You're kidding?”
“Yep.”
* * * * *
Frank Rogan wasn't home, and there was little to suggest he had been back since yesterday morning.
Blowflies crawled through the plate of chips and gravy on the living room table. The television was still offering pasty black and white entertainment to anyone willing to watch. But this time Kristy was seriously spooked by the room's mausoleum quality.
Now she looked, all the signs she cared to see pointed to an unplanned and hasty departure, and not simple slovenliness as she had put it down to yesterday.
Jason turned the television off.
“May as well save the old guy's electricity bill.”
She actually heard the clock on the wall stop ticking then, its absence a sound in itself. If Rogan had ever owned anything of value he had long since bartered it for the tacky picture of the Virgin Mary and the plastic crucifix above the mantle of the open hearth. The furniture was old enough to have gone out of fashion twice since its purchase, while the carpets, where there were any carpets, were threadbare and fit for little other than a bonfire.
She picked her way back through the warren of pokey, dimly lit rooms to the kitchen, searching for some sign of Frank Rogan. The air was thick with the pervasive smells of must, dust and rot creeping out of the woodwork.
The fruits of her search were equally dispiriting.
“Might as well face it, Kris, he's not here.”
“Doesn't mean I have to like it.”
“Let’s take a look around outside. The poor old sod might have had a heart attack in one of the barns or something.”
“And on that morbid note, let’s go look.”
Birds, some black, some a riot of clashing colours, flocked around a power pylon off past the barns, their raucous chirruping almost coming across the distance as words.
That more than one species of bird had joined the gathering throng didn't strike Kristy as peculiar until something Jason said much later.
Both barns were empty, though the light in the bigger of the two had been left to burn all day and all of the previous night. A tarpaulin had been half pulled back on an old tractor, the dry straw scuffed up by shuffling feet.
“Not in here,” she called to Jason, who had gone off down the hill, having volunteered to check out the weather-beaten rust-bucket of a caravan. He waved a hand to say he had heard, then turned to half walk, half bounce down the track.
Halfway between the outbuildings and the second, creeper smothered farmhouse a bolting rabbit had her as jumpy as a cat in a dog run.
Sheets of newspaper had been tacked over the insides of the windows, making an ineffectual screen from the high sun, at best.
The porch door was swinging slightly in the wind, reminding Kristy of all the clichéd horror movies Jason liked so much. On any of the many times she had seen that particular cinematic trick it was always left looking laughable rather than scary; unfortunately there was nothing funny about the crumbling building or the circumstances that had combined to bring her to its slowly swinging door.
Kristy held the porch door steady as she went through. There was no dim blue light inside, though there were sounds aplenty; scratchy, scrabbly sounds. Mice? She wouldn't have been surprised by an army of Mutant Killer Rats right now.
She moved forward, gripped the door handle, turned it and pushed. Shafts of daylight pierced the newspaper curtains here and there, alleviating the intense darkness of what lay beyond.
A bicycle lamp dangled from an overhead timber, waiting to shed its own light on the mystery. The rank odour of caged up birds clung to the air, the air itself not circulating this side of the door.
Kristy snapped on the light, causing several birds to stir. The walls were occupied by forty or fifty wooden stalls, in each a pigeon. The feeder trays in front of most were empty. Bags of mix rested beneath the workbench.
Her intrusion had the birds pacing agitatedly about their coops.
There was no positive sign of Frank Rogan, only another marker for his absence.
On an impulse she wouldn't have cared to justify, Kristy tipped one of the bags of feed, upending a great heap of mix onto the centre of the floor, then shot the restraining bolts that caged the hungry birds and backed out of the pigeon shed before the crush made it impossible.
She left the birds to fend for themselves. Down the track she could see Jason peering in through the old van's windows.
Feeling flat, she drove down to meet him halfway.
“No sign?”
“It's like the bloody Twilight Zone 'round here,” Jason quipped, buckling up. “Turn your back and every bugger's gone before you know it.”
“In which case, I think it's time we called in the cavalry. Unless you've got any better ideas?”
“Fresh out of ideas, I'm afraid.”
* * * * *
When the Citroen crawled into the village proper, Kristy wondered if Jason wasn't right, and somehow they hadn’t wandered into the set of a Sixties horror story.
Westbrooke was in chaos. All five hundred yards of it, end to end. A white police squad car was parked outside the single story block of an infant school. The windows of the old school were boarded up; the nailed shut door had been forced open recently.
One man and his dog were out for a quiet stroll along the front street. Seeing the police stationed across the street they pulled up behind the police car. No one was going to get a quiet day today, by the looks of things. An ambulance and two other marked cars were parked ten yards further on. Glaziers were fitting a new window in one of the pub's doors.
A group of people, some in uniform, were gathered around the open door of the ambulance, their conversation obviously animated, their voices, however, not carrying.
“Back in a second,” she told Jason, cranking the door open. She clambered out, straightened her sweater and walked over to the argument. She thought about showing her press card, but decided to keep that little aspect of her interest under wraps.
The man doing most of the talking was in the simple shirt sleeves of his polic
e uniform, rolled up on blacksmith's forearms.
He was sucking heavily on a roll-up, his face curled up into an owlish scowl that threatened to either suck in or set light to anyone foolish enough to argue the point right now.
“Now or never,” Kristy muttered, and butted in. “We need to talk.”
“And just who in the holy hell are you when you're at home?”
Now you've gone and done it, she thought, and taking that line, she said: “Kristy French. We spoke yesterday about the dead deer.”
It was a guess, but even if he hadn't answered Jason's call himself someone should have told him about it at least.
“Well, very nice to meet you Miss French, but if you will excuse me I've got rather more pressing matters to attend to than a dead animal.”
He turned back to the interrupted argument, flicking the still smouldering butt of his cigarette over the low wall behind him.
“I know. That's what I am here to talk to you about. Frank Rogan's disappeared.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. You have got to be kidding me, lady? I don’t . . . What the hell's happening here? Sam, you finish up. Charlie start clearing out the youth block, I figure we're gonna need all the space we can get our hands on. And you, young lady, come with me.
* * * * *
“Now, do you want to start from the beginning?”
They were in Barney Doyle's office. The old sergeant had rolled another smoke and was leaning across the desk. His thick moustache was as snowy as the hair on his head, and his face as gnarled as a winter tree that had seen hard times aplenty and was buckling under the sure and certain knowledge there was worse to come.
Kristy couldn't help but like the solidity this hulk of a policeman promised, with his looks that put him halfway between Santa Claus and a favourite grandfather.
Against her better judgement she put her press card on the table between them and shrugged as if to say, “Sorry.”
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