Amy laid down her knife and fork. ‘Are you trying to talk your way out of this?’
He laughed. ‘Sounds like a great proposition to me. But—’
He stopped. He looked at her, but did not see. His eyes were wide.
‘Jon . . .?’ She reached across the cluttered table and touched his hand.
The coffee percolator bubbled in the corner of the kitchen. A fly buzzed against a window frame. Dust motes floated in the rays from the sun. Yet everything seemed still.
‘What is it?’ Amy asked nervously.
Childes blinked. He began to rise. Stopped halfway. ‘Oh no . . .’ he moaned, ‘. . . not that . . .’
His knuckles were white against the table-top and his shoulders suddenly hunched, his head bowing.
Amy shivered when he raised his head once more and she saw the shocked anguish.
‘Jon!’ she shouted as he lurched for the door, knocking his empty coffee mug from the table, the handle breaking off as it hit the floor.
Amy pushed back her chair and followed him into the hallway. He was standing by the phone, one trembling finger attempting to dial a number. It was no use, he was shaking too much. He looked at her beseechingly.
She reached him and grasped him by the shoulder. ‘Tell me what you’ve seen,’ she implored.
‘Help me, Amy. Please help me.’
She was stunned to see his eyes glistening with tears. ‘Who, Jon, who do you want to ring?’
‘Fran. Quickly! Something’s happened to Gabby!’
Her heart juddered as if from a blow, but she took the receiver from him, forcing herself to keep her own nerves under control. She asked him to tell her the number and at first, ridiculously, perversely, he could not remember. Then the figures came in a rush and he had to repeat them slowly for her.
‘It’s ringing,’ she said, handing back the receiver and moving closer to him. She could feel the quivering of his body.
The phone at the other end was lifted and she heard the distant voice.
‘Fran . . .?’
‘Is that you, Jonathan? Oh God, I’m glad you rang!’ There was a terrible distressed brittleness to her voice and Childes sagged, the dread almost overpowering.
‘Is Gabby . . .?’ he began to say.
‘Something terrible’s happened, Jon, something awful.’
‘Fran . . .’ His tears were blinding him now.
‘It’s Gabby’s friend Annabel. She’s missing, Jon. She came over earlier to play with Gabby, but she never came in. The police are next door with Melanie and Frank right now, and Melanie’s almost hysterical with worry. Nobody’s seen Annabel since, she’s just vanished into thin air. Gabby’s distraught and won’t stop crying. Jonathan, can you hear me . . .?’
Only Amy’s support kept Childes from collapsing to the floor.
Amy drove Childes to the airport, casting frequent anxious looks at his pallid face. He said nothing at all during the short journey.
His relief was mixed with sorrow for the missing girl, for he knew Annabel’s fate. It had made a mistake, he was sure of that; his daughter was meant to have been the victim. It would know by now.
Amy parked the MG while Childes checked in at the flight desk. She joined him in the lounge bar where they waited, neither one saying much, until his flight was called. She walked with him to the departure gate, an arm around his waist, his around her shoulders.
Amy kissed Childes tenderly before he went through, holding him tight for a few seconds. ‘Ring me if you get a chance, Jon,’ she told him.
He nodded, his face gaunt. Then he was gone, disappearing through the departure gate with the other passengers for Gatwick, his overnight bag slung over one shoulder.
Amy left the terminal and sat in her car until she saw the aircraft rise into the clear sky. She was weeping.
Childes rang the doorbell and saw movement behind the panes of reeded glass almost immediately. The door opened and Fran stood there, a mixture of gladness and misery on her face.
‘Jonathan,’ she said, stepping forward as if to embrace him; she hesitated on seeing the figure standing behind Childes and the moment was gone.
‘Hello, Fran,’ Childes said, and half-turned towards his companion. ‘You probably remember Detective Inspector Overoy.’
Confusion, then hostility, altered her features as she looked over his shoulder. ‘Yes, how could I forget?’ She frowned at her ex-husband, questioning him with her eyes.
‘I’ll explain inside,’ Childes told her.
She stood aside to let them through and Overoy bade her good evening as he passed, eliciting little response.
‘Let’s go into the sitting room,’ Fran said, but they heard the scampering of footsteps on the landing above before they could do as she suggested.
‘Daddy, Daddy!’ came Gabby’s excited cry and then she was hurtling down the stairs, leaping the last three into Childes’ outstretched arms as he went to meet her. She hugged him close, dampening his cheeks with her kisses and tears, her glasses pushed sideways on her face. He closed his eyes and held her tight.
She was sobbing as she blurted out, ‘Daddy, they’ve taken Annabel away.’
‘I know, Gabby, I know.’
‘But why, Daddy? Did a nasty man take her?’
‘We don’t know. The policemen will find out.’
‘Why won’t he let her go? Her mummy misses her, and so do I – she’s my best friend.’ Her face was blotchy from crying, her eyes puffed up behind the lenses of her spectacles.
He eased his daughter down and sat next to her on the stairs, taking a handkerchief from his pocket to mop away the wetness on her cheeks. He removed her glasses and polished them, talking softly to her as he did so. Her fingers clutched his wrist all the while.
Overoy interrupted. ‘I think I’ll call in next door and have a word with Mr and Mrs, er . . .’
‘Berridge,’ Fran finished for him.
‘You go ahead,’ said Childes, putting an arm around Gabby’s hunched shoulders. ‘We’ll talk when you’re through.’
With a brief nod towards Fran, Overoy left, closing the front door behind him. She immediately locked it.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ she demanded to know.
‘I rang him before I left,’ Childes explained. ‘He picked me up at Gatwick and drove me over.’
‘Yes, but what’s he got to do with this?’
Childes stroked his daughter’s hair and Gabby looked from him to her mother, revealing a new anxiety. He didn’t want an argument in front of her.
‘Gabby, look, you run upstairs and I’ll be up to see you soon. Mummy and I have to talk.’
‘You won’t shout at each other, will you?’
She still remembered.
‘No, of course not. We just have to discuss something privately.’
‘’Bout Annabel?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she’s my friend. I want to talk about her too.’
‘When I come up you can talk all you want.’
She rose, standing on the first step. Her arms went around his neck. ‘Promise me you won’t be long.’
‘I promise.’
‘I miss you, Daddy.’
‘You too, Pickle.’
She climbed the stairs, turning and waving from the top before running along the landing to her room.
‘Gabriel,’ Fran called after her. ‘I think it’s time you got yourself ready for bed. Pink nightie’s in your top drawer.’
They heard a sound that could have been a protest, but nothing more.
‘It’s been a bad day for her,’ Fran remarked as Childes stood once more.
‘Looks as though it’s been tough on you as well,’ he said.
‘Imagine the hell Frank and Melanie have been through.’ She kept her distance for just one moment longer, watching him uncertainly; and then she was in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, hair soft against his cheek. ‘Oh, Jon, it’s so bloody awful.’
He soothed her as with his daughter, by stroking her hair.
‘It could so easily have been Gabby,’ she said.
He did not reply.
‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘but I felt something was wrong this morning. Gabby was downstairs making tea and I got up to see why she was taking so long.’ Fran gave a small, tired laugh. ‘Would you believe she’d spilt the sugar and was patiently sweeping up every last grain so I wouldn’t find out? Annabel must have come through the garden to play with her around that time. Perhaps she went out onto the main road – nobody knows, nobody saw her. Except the person who took her. Oh God, Gabby and Annabel have been warned so many times about going outside the gate!’
‘We could both do with a drink,’ he suggested.
‘I was afraid to start – didn’t know if I’d be able to stop. I’d be no help to Melanie if I’d got plastered. I suppose it’s okay now that you’re here, though. You were always good at controlling my drinking.’
They went through to the sitting room, holding each other as though still lovers. Everything was so comfortably familiar to Childes despite the odd pieces of furniture collected after he had gone, five years of living in the house were difficult to forget; yet it was all so remote, no longer a part of him, of his life. It was an odd sensation, and not pleasant.
‘You sit down,’ he said, ‘I’ll fix the drinks. Gin and tonic still?’
Fran nodded. ‘Still. Make mine a large one.’ She slumped on to a sofa, kicking off her shoes and curling her legs beneath her, watching him all the time. ‘Jonathan, when you phoned this morning I didn’t give you the chance to say much, but I realized afterwards you were already distraught before I spoke. I don’t know, there was something anxious just in the way you said my name.’
‘D’you want ice?’
‘Doesn’t matter, just give me the drink. Were you upset when you rang?’
He poured a good measure of gin and reached for a tonic inside the glass cabinet. ‘I thought something had happened to Gabby,’ he replied.
‘To Gabby? Why, what . . .?’ Her voice trailed off, and then she closed her eyes. ‘Oh no, not again,’ she murmured softly.
He brought her gin and tonic over and her gaze never left his as he handed her the glass. ‘Tell me,’ she said, almost as a plea.
Childes poured himself a Scotch, then returned to the sofa, sitting close to her. ‘The sightings are happening again.’
‘Jon . . .’
‘This morning I had an overpowering feeling that Gabby was in danger.’ Could he tell her yet that he had known their daughter was in danger, that Annabel had been taken by mistake? Throughout the day he had been taunted by this other, perverted, mind, received glimpses of the prolonged atrocity, the creature, whoever and whatever it was, tormenting him, searching out his mind to inflict painful visions. And oddly, after a while Childes had learned to inure himself to the sightings, for he had become aware that the worst had already happened, that Annabel could no longer feel the torture. She hadn’t from almost the beginning. He had to tell Fran that much at least.
‘But it wasn’t Gabby, it was her friend, Annabel,’ his ex-wife had already said.
‘Yes, somehow I got things wrong in my mind.’ It was the coward’s way, but she would have to face another shock before the whole truth could be told. Take it slowly, he said to himself, one bit at a time. ‘Fran, there’s something you’ve got to know.’
She took a large swallow of gin as if steeling herself, aware that his ‘intuitions’ were always bad, never good. She said it for him, unable to stop herself. ‘Annabel’s dead, isn’t she?’
He bowed his head, avoiding her eyes.
Fran’s face crumpled, the drink spilling over onto her trembling hand. Childes took the glass from her, leaning over to place it on the occasional table beside the sofa. He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest.
‘It’s so vile, so wicked,’ she moaned. ‘Oh dear God, what will we tell Frank and Melanie? How can we tell them?’
‘No, Fran, we can’t say anything yet. That’ll be up to the police when . . . when they find her body.’
‘But how can I face Melanie, how can I help her when I know? Are you sure, Jon, are you absolutely certain?’
‘It’s like before.’
‘You were never wrong.’
‘No.’
He felt her body stiffen. ‘Why did you think Gabby had been taken?’ She pulled away so that she could look into his face. Fran had never been a fool.
‘I’m not sure. I suppose I was confused because it happened so close to home.’
She frowned disbelievingly and was about to say more when they heard the doorbell.
‘That’ll be Overoy,’ Childes said, relieved. ‘I’ll let him in.’
The detective’s expression was sombre when he followed Childes into the sitting room. ‘They’re taking it badly,’ he said.
‘What would you expect?’ Fran countered with a sharpness that surprised both men.
‘Sorry, that was pretty trite,’ Overoy apologized. He nodded as Childes showed him the whisky bottle from across the room. ‘Can I ask you the same question I asked Annabel’s parents, Mrs Childes? Er, it is still Childes, isn’t it?’
‘Childes sounds better on a letter-heading than my maiden name so I never bothered. It’s less confusing for Gabriel, too. As for your first question, it’s one I’ve been asked several times today by your colleagues and the answer remains the same: I’ve noticed no one who could be described as suspicious within the last week or so, or even the last few months. Now let me ask you two a question.’
Overoy took the whisky glass from Childes and their eyes met for a brief moment.
‘Take a seat, Inspector, you look uncomfortable standing there.’ Fran reached for her gin and tonic, noting her hand was still shaky as she picked up the glass. But she was curious too, a new suspicion forming in her mind. Childes came over and sat next to her.
‘It seems peculiar to me that Jonathan should immediately contact you just because he’s had another of his infamous sightings, and that you should take the trouble of picking him up at the airport and bringing him here. I mean, why you when he hasn’t seen you for – what, nearly three years?’
‘I’m familiar with his background, Mrs Childes, his special ability.’
‘Yes, I know you’ve come to believe in it. But to drop everything just to meet him? I wonder if you were even on duty today? It is a Saturday, after all.’
Childes answered this time. ‘As a matter of fact I contacted Inspector Overoy at home.’
‘Ah, you had his private number.’
‘We didn’t intend to keep anything from you, Fran. It’s just that we thought – I thought – that you might be upset enough over Annabel’s disappearance without giving you more to worry about.’
A fresh fear was in her eyes. She used both hands to raise the gin to her lips, sipped, then slowly lowered the glass so that it rested in her lap. Her back was rigid and her voice unsteady when she said: ‘I think it’s time you told me everything.’
The hour was late.
Childes and his ex-wife sat alone at a table in the kitchen, the remains of an unenthusiastically cooked meal before them, the food itself eaten with even less enthusiasm. All was quiet in Gabby’s bedroom.
‘I should see how Melanie is.’ Fran bit into her lower lip, an anxiety habit that he had often chided her over during their marriage.
‘It’s well after ten, Fran – I shouldn’t disturb her now. Besides, Melanie’s doctor may have sedated her, so she could be sleeping.’
Fran’s shoulders slumped. ‘What would I say to her anyway, knowing what you’ve told me? Can you really be so positive?’
He knew what she referred to. ‘I wish I could have some doubt.’
‘No, as I said before, you were never wrong about . . . about those things.’ There was no jibe in her remarks, only an immense sadness. ‘But there is something different
going on this time, isn’t there? This isn’t like those other incidents years ago.’
He sipped lukewarm coffee before answering. ‘I’ve got no explanation. Somehow this monster knows me, can penetrate my mind: how and why is a mystery.’
‘Perhaps he’s accidentally stumbled upon your access code.’
He regarded her with surprise. ‘I don’t follow.’
Fran pushed her plate to one side and leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Look at it this way, using your beloved computers as an analogy. When you want to gain access to another system, you need that system’s special code to open the door, don’t you? Once you have that code, you can get inside the other machine’s memory bank. In fact, you have dialogue between both computers, right? Well, maybe this other mind got hold of your access code by accident or other means. Or perhaps subconsciously, you have his.’
‘I didn’t realize you were interested in such things.’
‘I’m not as a rule, but what happened to us last time left me a little curious. I did some research – not much, just enough to try and understand. A lot still doesn’t make much sense to me, but at least I know something of the various theories on psychic phenomena. Admittedly most appear to be ridiculous, though there is a certain pleasing logic to some. I’m only surprised you never investigated further yourself.’
He became uncomfortable. ‘I wanted to forget everything that happened, not pursue it.’
‘Strange.’
‘What is?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ She smiled distantly. ‘I remember you never even liked ghost stories. I always put it down to your microchip disposition; you’ve no room in that technological brain of yours for such romanticisms. How ironic that someone like you should have received psychic messages; it might even have been funny if they hadn’t been so horrendous.’
‘I’ve changed at least in some ways.’
‘I’d be interested to hear.’
‘Computers have taken a back seat. They’re just a job, and only part-time at that.’
‘Then you really have changed. Any other miracles?’
‘Different lifestyle, more easy-going I guess you could say, more time spent relaxing, enjoying the things around me.’
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