. . . and he was fading, slowly sinking with each blundering step downwards, losing his grip on Sandy, his hand touching warm concrete, taking his own weight so that he could gently lower himself, let his body fold up to rest, succumbing to the choking heat, even though there was only a short way to go, just one more flight, one more—
A tiny part of his flagging senses revived a fraction, became alert to something that was happening below. His length sprawled on the stairs, he raised himself on one elbow.
Voices. He could hear voices. Shouting. Dark silhouettes against flames that billowed from a corridor on the ground floor. Figures on the stairs. Coming towards him . . .
MOONSTONE
(potassium aluminium silicate KA lSi308)
Density: 2.57
Hardness: 6
Indices of refraction: 1.519–1.526 (low)
A variety of orthoclase feldspar,
moonstone exhibits a faint but
characteristic fluorescence when subjected
to X-ray radiation.
Moonstone, so called because when held to
light, presents silvery play of colour not
unlike that of the moon. Colour, usually
white, known to mineralogists as
schillerization, from German word
‘schiller’ meaning iridescence. Found in
Sri Lanka, Madagascar and Burma.
Overoy stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, rubbing his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger of his other hand. He sat at the dining-table, a light hanging so low over the smoked-glass surface that the room around him was cast in shadows. The living area was beyond a squared archway, two small rooms made into one large, an alteration he had tackled himself when he and Josie had moved nine years before, a distant time when he possessed energy for both career and domestic enterprises. Only a single lamp shone in that room, the television in grey suspension, curtains closed against the summer’s night.
Nothing. He looked down at his notes and said the word: ‘Nothing.’
The tiny gem was no more than some kind of kinky calling-card. But calling-cards were a reference.
So why a moonstone?
A reference to the moon?
With one hand he spread the notes before him, sweeping them in an arc like a winning hand of cards.
Amy Sebire had suggested that Moon was a name. Yet Childes had psychically seen the moon as a symbol.
A symbol representing a name?
Overoy reached for the cigarette pack, found it empty, tossed the carton towards the end of the table. He stood, stretching his arms out behind his back, taking a short walk around the table. He sat once more and ran his hands over his face and around to the back of his neck, entwining his fingers there.
How was Childes coping? he wondered. Against all the rules, Overoy had left scene-of-crime evidence with him. A tiny piece of evidence, the moonstone itself. Childes had wanted the gem. So why not? It was useless to the police. But the stone had some significance for the killer. Checking jewellers in and around the London area had yielded nothing so far, even though the gem on its own wasn’t a usual item for sale. The person they were looking for was obviously shopping around, never using the same place twice.
His weary eyes ranged over the pile of books heaped on the dark glass, most of them unhelpful, the information he needed sifted only from a few. That information was all to do with the moon; or more precisely, the mystical aspect of the moon.
Moon-madness, Josie had scolded him before leaving him in the gloom for their bed.
Not my moon-madness, Josie; someone else’s.
Ask any policeman how the crime rate, usually with violence, inexplicably increased during a full moon. Even headshrinks believed a full moon tended to bring out the loonies. Overoy had underlined a note he had made: If the moon has an effect on the earth’s water masses, then why not also on the brain, which is semi-liquid pulp? It was a thought.
And two new moons in one single month was said to be calamitous by those who believed in such things. There had been two new moons in May when the Moonstone atrocities had begun. That point had been underscored in his notes as well.
Another common belief among many people was that the moon’s maleficent character (despite his weariness he smiled at himself, thinking of the old Man in the Moon and his cranky ways) could be manifested here on earth as a baleful emanation by those who had occult powers. Interesting but not a point to put before the commissioner.
He picked up a red felt-tip and circled the capital-letter word MUTILATIONS, then drew a line from it to another: RITUAL. Close to that he now wrote: SACRIFICE?? Perhaps a better word was OFFERING.
Offering to what? The moon? No, there had to be some kind of reasoning, even if only a crazy man’s reasoning. To a moon god then? Goddesses seemed to dominate that area of worship, so let’s make it moon goddess. Oh boy, if the boys in blue could see him now.
All right. There were a few moon goddesses to ponder on. Let’s run through the list again:
DIANA
ARTEMIS
SELENE
Then three who were the same:
AGRIOPE – Greek
SHEOL–Hebrew
HECATE
NEPHYS – Egyptian
Hecate. Why did that one ring a bell, albeit a very distant bell? Coming across that name in his researches had prompted further investigation into moon worship and the relevant gods and goddesses. (She seemed to be the most popular, but why should that mean anything? Let’s have a look at her.)
Hecate. Goddess of the dead. Necromantic rituals devoted to her. Daughter of the Titan Perses and of Asteria. Protector and teacher of sorceresses. (Was he really taking all this seriously?)
Hecate. Keyholder of Hell, dispatcher of phantoms from the underworld. At night she would leave Hades and roam on earth accompanied by hounds and the souls of the dead, her hair like bristling snakes and her voice like a howling dog. Her favourite nocturnal retreat was near a lake called Armarantiam Phasis, ‘the lake of murders’. (Nice lady.)
Hecate. Possessor of all the great dark knowledges, mother of witches. (What was it about the name?)
Hecate. Like the moon she was fickle and inconsistent of character. At times benign and motherly, acting as midwife, nurse and foster-mother, watching over crops and flocks. But the other side of her nature, the dark side, gradually superseded her kinder side. She had become an infernal deity, a snake goddess with three heads – a dog’s, a horse’s, a lion’s. (Real Edgar Allen. Hell, he couldn’t believe he’d written it all down. At least he’d been wise enough to carry out his research at home.)
Overoy reached for the half-drunk mug of coffee lurking behind the pile of books, his lips curling back in disgust on tasting the tepid dregs. He put down the mug again and relaxed back in the chair. Where was he getting with all this? Was the research mere time-wasting or did it really have some relevance? They were dealing with someone who had a sick, deranged mind, someone who desecrated the dead, mutilated murdered victims. Someone who left a moonstone as a calling card, and someone who got a kick out of psychological torment. Not a pleasant person. But a moon-worshipper? Or, more accurately, a moon-goddess worshipper?
Nah, no sense to it.
But their quarry was demented anyway.
Why had Hecate stuck in his mind? What was familiar about that name? Something he’d seen somewhere . . .
He groaned. No good, he was too tired to think any more. Everything was buzzing around inside his head and none of it settling. Bed. Sleep on it. Talk with Josie – whoops, was that the time? Talk to her in the morning; she always helped clear his thoughts. Maybe he’d got it all wrong anyway. Moon-goddesses, moon-worshippers, moonstones. Psychics. Life was simpler on the beat.
Overoy rose from the dining-table and, hands tucked into trouser pockets, took one last look at his spread notes.
Finally shrugging, he turned off the light and went up to bed . . .
. . . And awoke at dawn
, the answer there before him like a faint neon sign seen through fog. Not much, no big deal, but a glimmer.
All grogginess instantly gone, he scrambled out of bed.
Full moon . . .
‘To whom am I speaking to?’
‘Hello, Daddy!’
‘Hi, Pickle.’
‘Daddy, I’ve started a new school.’
‘Yes, I know, Mummy just told me. Have you made any new friends yet?’
‘We-ll, one. Two really, but I’m not sure of Lucy yet. Do I have to stay at this school, Daddy? I miss my proper one.’
‘Only for a little while, Gabby, just until summer holidays begin.’
‘Then will we go home to our own house?’
‘Don’t you like it there at Nanny’s?’
‘Ooh yes, but home is nicer. Nanny spoils me, she thinks I’m still a baby.’
‘She doesn’t realize you’re a big girl now?’
‘No. But it’s not her fault, she has good pretensions.’
He chuckled. ‘Make the most of it, kiddo, you’re a long time old.’
‘All grups say that.’ ‘Grups’ was their special word for grown-ups. ‘Are you coming to see me soon, Daddy? I’ve done some pictures for you, I did them with finger-paints. Nanny’s cross about the walls, but she didn’t smack me, she never does. Are you coming to see me, Daddy?’
Childes hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, Gabby. You know I want to, don’t you?’
‘Are you too busy at your schools? I told my new friends you were a teacher, but Lucy didn’t believe me. She said teachers didn’t teach video games. I tried to explain, Daddy, but you know how thicko some children can be. When it’s holiday time, can I come and see you?’
So many uncertainties in his mind, but he told her yes, anyway.
‘But I don’t want to go on a boat this time, Daddy,’ she said after her initial pleasure, her voice becoming low.
‘No, you’ll come by plane, like always.’
‘I mean there – I don’t want to go on a boat like last time.’
‘When we cruised round the island on that little motor-boat, when we went to all those sandy beaches? I thought you enjoyed that.’
‘I don’t like water any more.’
That was all she would say.
‘Why not, Gabby? You used to.’
Silence for a while. Then: ‘Can Mummy come too?’
‘Yes, of course, if she’d like to. Maybe Mummy’ll let you stay on for a month or so.’ Forget those black uncertainties, he told himself. Let these promises bring you out on the other side. Think of them as weapons against . . . whatever was about to happen.
‘Really? D’you really mean it? I can stay with you for more than two weeks?’
‘It’s up to your mother.’
‘Will you ask her now – please?’
‘Uh, no, Gabby, not just yet. I’ve got something that needs . . . well, it needs clearing up first. Then I’ll know everything for certain.’
‘But you won’t forget you promised?’
‘I won’t forget.’
‘Okay, Daddy. Miss Puddles is here and she wants to say hello.’
‘Tell her meow from me.’
‘She says meow back. Not really, but I can tell she’s thinking it. Nanny’s bought a basket for her, but she likes sleeping on top of the fridge.’
‘Nanny does?’
‘Silly. D’you want to speak to Mummy again? She’s going to read me a story in bed.’
No, he wanted to ask her about the water. Small children often developed sudden and irrational fears that bothered them for a while, then disappeared just as quickly, but Childes had been disconcerted by what Gabby had said. Perhaps she’d seen a bad TV movie, or one of the other kids had told her a drowning story. No matter; he hadn’t been keen on water himself for some time. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘find Mummy for me. Listen, I’ll speak to you soon, all right?’
‘Yes. Lubboo, Daddy!’
For a fleeting, terrifying moment, Childes felt he might never hear his daughter say that to him again. The feeling passed, a cold breeze rustling through a tree.
‘I love you, too, Gabby.’
She mouthed six rapid kisses down the phone and he returned one big one.
Just before Gabby rested the receiver, she said, ‘Oh and Daddy, tell Annabel I miss her and tell her about my new school.’
He heard the clunk as the phone was laid down and Gabby’s voice growing fainter as she went looking for her mother.
‘Gabby—’
She was gone.
Had he misheard? More probably, Gabby had meant to say Amy. Tell Amy I miss her . . . Her little friend Annabel was dead, Gabby knew that by now. Fran had explained that Annabel wouldn’t be coming back.
‘Me again, Jon.’ Fran’s voice sounded rushed as usual.
Childes gave his head a little shake – or was it a shudder? – to clear his thoughts. ‘Fran, has Gabby been acting okay lately?’
‘Hardly. The move’s upset her more than she lets on and starting a new school is always a mite traumatic anyway.’ Her tone changed. ‘I get a weird feeling when you start asking about Gabby nowadays.’
‘No premonitions, Fran. Honest. Has she mentioned Annabel to you?’
‘Several times. But she’s not as distressed as you’d have thought. What makes you ask?’
‘I just get the impression she believes her friend is still alive.’
Fran did not answer immediately. Eventually she said, ‘Gabby’s been dreaming a lot recently. Not particularly bad dreams, nightmares, anything like that; she’s taken to talking in her sleep a lot.’
‘Does she mention Annabel’s name?’
‘She did once or twice at first; not any more, though. I think she’s accepted she’ll never see her again.’
‘Why is she suddenly afraid of water?’
‘What?’
‘She seems to have gone off boats and water.’
‘That’s a new one on me. Fire I could understand, after what you’ve been through. But water? That I can’t figure.’
‘You told her about La Roche?’
‘Sure. Her daddy’s a hero; she’s entitled to know.’
‘Hardly a hero.’
‘Modest, too.’
‘A few over here would like to know how I got to the school so fast, even before the Fire Department had been alerted.’
‘The police surely don’t suspect you?’
‘I wouldn’t put it that strongly, but let’s say nobody’s clapped me on the back yet.’
‘Oh, Jon, I can’t believe this. They can’t be that stupid! You barely got out of there alive yourself. And you rescued those two little—’
‘I left seven others to die.’
‘You tried to save them, you did your best. You told me that, Jon.’
‘What happened was because of me.’
‘Stop being such a bloody martyr and start talking sense. Just because some psychopath has chosen you for a crazy personal vendetta, it doesn’t mean you’re to blame. None of what’s happened has been within your control. Now tell me what these hick policemen are up to.’
‘You have to see things from their point of view.’
‘Like hell I do.’
‘They wanted to know what had made me go to the school before the fire started.’
‘That must have been difficult to explain. Explain it to me again.’
‘I’ve told you, Fran; let’s not do a re-run. Anyway, their questions came thick and fast even while I was still in a hospital bed having oxygen pumped into me.’
‘The ungrateful—’
‘They had a burnt-out school, lives lost, a murdered policeman – what would you expect? That’s twice I was ahead of anyone else at the scene of a crime.’
‘So they suspect you of arson and murder. That’s terrific. Jon, why the hell don’t you get back over here, right now, take a late plane, or the first one tomorrow morning? Why put up with all this?’
‘I
don’t think they’d like that.’
‘They can’t hold you there.’
‘Maybe they can. I’m not leaving, Fran. Not yet.’
Her exasperation bordered on raw anger. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s here. And while that’s so, you and Gabby are safe, don’t you understand that?’
She did. She said so. Quietly.
Childes went through into the sitting room, heading for the small array of drinks kept on the bookshelf opposite the door. He lifted the whisky bottle, twisted the top. And stopped. That’s not going to help, he told himself. Not tonight.
He returned the bottle.
The room was shaded, only a table lamp providing light. The curtains were drawn back at both ends of the sitting room, open to the night, and he saw the sky was sheered an eerie metallic blue. Childes closed the curtains nearest to him, those at the front of the cottage, then walked the length of the room to the other window. Outside, the moon, white and only faintly smudged, not yet high in its cloudless territory, resembled a communion wafer, flat and delicately tissue thin. He drew the curtains against the night.
Hands tucked deep into the pockets of his cord jeans, Childes went to the coffee table near the room’s centre,
his movement slow, almost sauntering (except there was nothing casual in his demeanour). A two-day stubble darkened his chin and there was an intensity to his fixed gaze that was oddly both weary and alert as he stood over the low table, looking down. In his eyes, too, was a steady resoluteness.
He lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa facing the coffee table, leaning forward, elbows on knees, observing the tiny round object on the smooth wooden surface.
The lamp’s reflection infused a hint of warmth into the moonstone’s translucent coldness, while liquid blue, toned to indigo, shimmered a wintry variegation.
He stared into the moonstone’s depths, like some old-fashioned clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball, as though fascinated by the subtle shades; in truth, he looked beyond that interior, seeking perhaps the innermost part of his own self. But searching for something else as well: grasping for a link, a connection, an access code.
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