Fraser left reflecting on Conrad’s advice, thinking about it the tracks of those boots were unusual. Maybe they were closer to the Yeti than they thought. He had something good to report back to Dougie.
Titus pulled back a huge branch of a tree to get a better view of Fraser as he left Conrad’s hut. He’d been watching him and Dougie during the last few days. He knew they were after him and he was hatching a plan to put them off the trail, permanently.
23
Tracey Truman was a very rich lady with expensive tastes and high spending habits. She loved to indulge in everything from high-end designer labels and the finest dining, to extravagant homes, cars and yachts. If she thought someone had something better than her, she would virtually go out the following day and buy the next best thing, whether she needed it or not.
She had made her money buying and selling companies and was really good at it. She often said that she could smell a great deal, like she could smell the brand of an expensive perfume from across the room. People found her to be loud, rude, a great show-off, selfish and intimidating. Most people she met usually disliked her almost immediately. On meeting her once, many people would try and avoid a second occasion. Despite that, many of them secretly admired her success and wanted to be just like her.
You may not be surprised to hear that Tracey had no real friends, in fact the closest she had to a friend was her lawyer, Jenson Thorn. How sad was that! She was getting on a bit now and was starting to think that no man was good enough to be her husband.
Tracey was not lonely though; she had two bodyguards, Boris and Eric. They were big, tough guys but they were terrified of Tracey. She could rely on them to make great tea, cocktails and produce the tastiest home cooking. They weren’t particularly bright and could only hold a conversation of more than one sentence if it was about football.
What no one knew about Tracey, not even Jenson Thorn, was that she had become obsessed with two things. The first was about wanting to become the richest person in the world. The second was her desperate desire to become famous. She had become intrigued by the mysterious disappearance of young Paris Palmer in Switzerland and her unexplained reappearance back home, and even more intrigued by her apparent newfound talent to predict things. There was something very strange going on there and she wanted to be in on it.
Imagine, she could use Paris’s predictions to make her so rich and then if she helped Paris remember the trauma of her disappearance, she would be famous too, beating the so-called experts who couldn’t seem to do anything for her. That was a double whammy.
Another thing that very few people knew about Tracey was that when she was young she ran away to join the circus, yes that really did used to happen! There she became a very competent hypnotist, learning from one of the best, The Great Ali Bongo!
He could hypnotise anyone, make them do practically anything and remember practically anything, right back to their childhood. Tracey was a bit rusty now, but she was sure she could get Paris to remember what happened to her. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment and Paris was the key to it.
Skyla’s date, Freddie Smith, had let her down. She’d waited outside the cinema for over an hour. The Star Wars film had started twenty minutes ago, but she was sure Freddie was still coming. Skyla hated Star Wars, but it would be OK to sit through the film if she could hold hands with the adorable Freddie and share popcorn.
Then a text arrived. “Not coming, sorry.” Skyla was livid. What a way to dump someone.
She stormed across to the bus stop. Her light pink dress swirled and strutted with each step, reflecting her anger.
She waited impatiently for a bus. It was great to see an electronic display tracking the arrival time of the next bus, but not so great to see that it just said ‘westbound buses’. Then something stopped at the bus stop, not a bus but something at the other end of the spectrum, a pink Rolls Royce. The rear window slowly lowered.
Tracey Truman peered out, her cheeks were the whitest of porcelain; her hair the blondest of blonde and her lipstick was the brightest red. “Hello Skyla, how are you? Looking for a lift home? Here’s my card by the way. I’m Tracey Truman, a respectable businesswoman,” she added, thrusting a pink business card towards Skyla’s hand.
Skyla examined it, it seemed real; the pink Rolls Royce certainly was. Tracey carried on, “I want to help your friend Paris, a very sad story, but I really can help her. Please let me give you a lift and I’ll explain all.” No matter how persuasive she was, Skyla was not getting into a car with a stranger.
Luckily for Tracey when Skyla phoned her mum to check to see if it was OK to take the lift, Skyla’s mum had heard of Tracey Truman. After a brief chat with Tracey, Skyla’s mum agreed it was OK to accept the lift, especially as the encounter with Tracey sounded most intriguing.
Skyla almost gasped at the luxury of the interior of the Rolls Royce. She sank back into pink cushions on the back seat and gratefully took the coconut mocktail offered by Tracey, along with a big smile and some peanuts.
Tracey had a remote control in her hand and pressed one of the buttons. Two compartments popped open in front of them.
“Chocolates in the left and sweeties in the right,” said Tracey, gesturing gracefully with her hand, like the Queen.
“Thanks,” said Skyla, as she took handfuls from both. As she munched Skyla noticed a large number of in-car gadgets, a TV screen across the back of the front seats, a games console, a flash laptop on some kind of adjustable tray and what looked like a coffee machine fixed into the side door.
Meanwhile, Freddie Smith was counting the money a big guy had given him as he made his way to the cinema. He had pulled-up in a pink Rolls Royce and told Freddie it was his lucky day. All he had to do he was go home straightaway, no questions asked. All very strange, but Freddie didn’t care as £100 was well worth the sacrifice of a date with Skyla Tomkins. Tracey was a professional, she knew how to impress and manipulate people; getting them to do the things she wanted them to do. If there were an Olympic sport to get people to do what you wanted them to do, Tracey would be a three time gold medalist.
On the drive back to Skyla’s house Tracey set out how she could help Paris. She knew about psychology and things of the mind and why people stop themselves from remembering. She also knew about people who had the kind of talent that Paris had. Paris needed proper help from someone who understood her predicament, and Tracey Truman was that person.
Tracey looked into Skyla’s eyes, trying her best to look so concerned. “Skyla, we owe it to Paris to help her. Will you help me help her?” A tear trickled down Tracey’s cheek,
“I will,” said Skyla, “what do I need to do?”
24
The next day Paris woke to an argument in the kitchen. Mum and dad were in full flow; it was about her. Ever since she came back home, the family seemed to be in turmoil. She so wished everything was back to how it was on the last day of term. Paris picked up her now fading daisy chain; even Toby seemed to be keeping his distance.
Then, her phone flickered, along with the sound of ‘twinkle’. It was a text from Skyla.
“Hi darling, meet school gates at 11, know someone who can sort you out. Trust me, Sky x.”
Paris texted back, “Who x?’
“Just come, x,” came the rapid reply.
Paris was early, school was closed for the summer and it looked deserted, not even a sign of Mr Milligan the grumpy school caretaker. Skyla turned up at ten minutes past eleven, she’d only ever been on time once. That was because on that occasion her watch was running fast.
“Paris, you’re not going to believe this, but I’ve met someone who can help you remember what happened in Switzerland, and find out why you’ve changed.”
“Tell me then.” Paris was finding all this cloak-and-dagger stuff annoying!
“That’s me, darling.” Tracey appeared from nowhere, with a big smile and a flowing turquoise dress. She was trying to look as friendly as possible. Her
pink Rolls Royce was parked around the corner with Boris at the wheel. Skyla introduced Tracey and briefly went over the details of their meeting.
The three sat on the long bench outside the school gates where parents waited for their children, and talked about what had been going on since Paris returned home. Several times Tracey said, very sympathetically, “You poor thing.”
Paris was beginning to realise that Tracey was the first person to really understand how awful she was feeling and how worse things were probably going to get. Tracey was making good progress in getting Paris on side. After a good chat with Tracey explaining how she had helped many people with memory loss with her special kind of hypnosis, she went in for the kill, “Paris, sweetheart, I really can help you; I have a wonderful place in Dartmoor, a mansion actually, very near to the spot where you were found. We can go there for a few days, away from all those nosey people and the media. Being near to where you were found with time to think, I’ve no doubt we can make you remember.”
It hadn’t taken that long for Tracey to persuade Paris’s parents to allow her to spend a few days therapy time with her. Yes, Tracey was not a conventional doctor and yes she could not guarantee success, but she had treated people like Paris successfully before, and she herself felt a deep connection to Paris. It all sounded so convincing. All the while Tracey was scheming, working out a whole bunch of predictions that she could trick Paris into making. More money was coming her way and at some point she would get Paris to remember what really happened. Interviews would follow after solving the mystery of Paris’s disappearance. She’d be on the TV for weeks. Then her own ‘Morning’ show would follow, advising on how to be a successful businesswoman and maybe some hypnosis thrown in for entertainment value.
Paris and her mum were on their way to Tracey’s mansion, enjoying the luxury of the pink Rolls Royce. Perhaps not surprisingly, mum was impressed by the Prosecco located in the mini fridge neatly concealed in the seat in front of them. Even the glasses were chilled and ice freely available. The Rolls Royce was big enough for Tracey, Paris and her mum to sit comfortably side by side.
Mum spent two days at Tracey’s mansion. Tracey was most insistent that after that she needed one-to-one time with Paris, one week only, to clear her mind. In Tracey’s opinion, unfortunately one of the confusing factors in Paris’s life at the moment was in fact her mum.
Feeling a bit put out, before she left Paris’s mum fully enjoyed the facilities of Tracey’s mansion, a huge swimming pool and personal spa. Being a beautician herself, she made the most of the treatments on offer. Boris drove mum back to London, along with a good stock of Prosecco for the journey, and a promise of daily phone calls from Paris.
Once Paris was on her own with Tracey and her two bodyguards, that’s when Tracey got to work. She invited Paris into a cosy little sitting room at the back of the mansion. It had two sofas facing each other, one for Paris and one for Tracey. The room was dimly lit with candles placed in every corner. It was the sort of room that if you went to sit in it when you were tired, you’d be asleep in moments.
In between the two sofas was a small table and on that was a large crystal ball resting in a dip in the centre of the table.
“Now relax Paris, I want you to look into the crystal ball – see the candle light in and around it? It’s like stars shooting across the night sky.”
Paris stared into the crystal ball, it was mesmerising. It seemed to be drawing the light from every candle in the room, creating a warm flickering light show.
Tracey’s voice was soft and slow, as if she were struggling to stay awake. She said faintly, “Close your eyes Paris, rest, sleep. Let’s take away all those things troubling you.”
Paris was drifting off, her breathing becoming deeper, her eyes trembling beneath her closed eyelids.In a moment she had fallen into the deepest of sleeps, sitting bolt upright, her back so straight that her dance teacher would have been proud of her posture.
The session lasted nearly an hour. Tracey’s hypnosis had been very successful. She had instructed Paris that when she heard the phrase, “Tell me your thoughts,” she would fall into a trance. Tracey would ask her questions and Paris would give her best answers. When she then heard the phrase, “Thank you, that’s very helpful Paris,” then Paris would wake, with no recall of what had just happened.
It was a simple plan for Tracey. Over the coming days she would ask Paris for predictions. Most were about the expected share prices of companies that she was thinking of investing in, but she also couldn’t resist asking Paris to predict the Lottery numbers. She passed those to her so-called friend, her lawyer Jenson Thorn. He won £15M. Tracey was happy to take £5M. She even got Paris to foretell events that would appear in the news the next morning. Tracey could not get over how spot on Paris was every time.
25
Every day Tracey would hypnotise young Paris and get all sorts of predictions from her. She got Paris to phone home promptly at 6 pm each day just before dinner, to reassure her parents that she was OK and making good progress. Tracey had complete power over Paris now, but could tell Paris was getting lonely, missing her family and friends. However, Tracey’s hypnosis was keeping that under control.
Tracey was hatching a rather dastardly plan where she could keep Paris by her side well beyond the week she had agreed with Paris’s parents. It was an ambitious and selfish plan, requiring cunning and nerve, but her greed and the power she now had through Paris was steadily taking over. Tracey had convinced herself that although her plan was a ruthless one, most people would do the same thing in her situation, if they were as clever as her.
A strong wind was rattling the huge Georgian windows of the Truman mansion in Dartmoor. It appeared to be a dreary day ahead weatherwise. Heavy rain was not far away; big grey clouds were waiting to pounce. Paris was looking out over the Dartmoor moorland when a knock came at the door of the huge bedroom where she was staying, followed by a chirpy call of “Morning.” Tracey was at the door with a bowl of cornflakes and a smoothie. She breezed into Paris’s room wearing what Paris thought looked like a wedding dress, but turned out to be Tracey’s over-the-top dressing gown.
“I thought we’d get an early start today sweetheart, breakfast in your room, what a treat. Today I’m taking you to the village where you turned up after your ‘em - let’s say trip to Switzerland. I know it’s gonna rain, but that helps with memory recollection.” That wasn’t true of course, Tracey had simply decided that today she wanted to try and get Paris to remember how she appeared on Dartmoor; just for the sake of her curiosity.
Paris stared at the china bowl of cornflakes and the smoothie poured neatly into an expensive crystal glass. It all seemed very posh. But one thing she didn’t understand was that with all her money, Tracey preferred a cheap brand of cornflakes; they got soggy really quickly!
After breakfast Boris brought the pink Rolls Royce to the front door and they set off on the short ride to Narrowcombe village, where Paris was found. They visited Poppy Tucker at the general store, the person who stumbled across Paris all those mornings ago. Tracey explained that this was all about immersing Paris in the moment that was her first memory since the crash. This moment was the gateway to the lost memories, if they could open that gateway, Paris would remember everything since the accident and how she journeyed from Switzerland to Dartmoor.
“Fascinating,” thought Poppy, who was very pleased to see Paris; and had been wondering how she was doing. “All those media people following you around all the time must be very disconcerting,” she said to Paris sympathetically.
She was surprised Paris was not with her parents and asked about how the family were doing. Tracey was quick to stop the conversation; she didn’t want this nosey shopkeeper getting any vibe that Paris was feeling homesick. “Sorry,” said Tracey, “we must get going.”
They said their goodbyes and when they left the general store, Paris did start to remember something. She led Tracey to the edge of the village and to the
tree where she had left the purple marble. They had said nothing since leaving Poppy’s general store. Paris turned to Tracey, a look of recognition in her eyes, “I remember this tree,” she announced. “Yes I came here.”
“Good,” said Tracey, “let’s sit under the tree and take a moment.” Tracey took off her necklace and began swinging it right in front of Paris’s deep brown eyes. There was a heart-shaped charm on the chain that caught the dull sunlight as it swung to and fro. Soft rain started to fall. “Just look at the silver heart Paris, watch every swing and let yourself relax.” In no time Paris was hypnotised.
Tracey was very pleased with herself, and the extent of her power over Paris.
“Paris, where were you just before you came here, what was the place?”
Paris was quiet for a moment and then said, “A cave, it was a cave.”
Tracey leaned forward. Paris was speaking very quietly and she sensed she was near to getting somewhere.
“And who was there in the cave with you, you weren’t on your own were you?”
Paris looked to be in deep thought, trying to remember, really trying, she was frowning with concentration. Almost a minute passed before she spoke.
“No, I was with something.”
“You mean someone, darling.”
“No, no, it was a, it was a, it was a….”
Tracey was getting impatient. “It was a what - what was it Paris?”
“I think it was a bear.”
Tracey sighed frustratingly and leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree. “Oh dear,” she said with a tone of irritation in her voice. “I’m wasting my time, I thought I could crack this mystery.” Then she put her necklace back on and said loudly, “WAKE!”
Paris woke and looked up at the tall oak tree, unaware she had been hypnotised. “Thanks for bringing me here Tracey, but I still can’t remember anything since the accident.”
The Artist and The Yeti Page 7