Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  He stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind him, shutting himself out of the house. It wasn’t until he was standing on the pavement, feeling nauseous and confused, that he realised he had forgotten his shoes and his wallet. In his hand, he still clutched the half-full bottle of berry wine.

  He wasn’t hopeful, but the very first taxi he tried to flag down did actually stop, the driver studiously avoiding making any remarks about his bare feet. The man also waited patiently outside his apartment building, meter turned off, for Gabriel to go upstairs to get money.

  When Gabriel entered the loft, he immediately noticed the blinking light on his answering machine. He pressed the button, heart racing. Maybe they had called in the meantime? Maybe they wanted to talk everything over and make up?

  ‘Gabriel.’ Even the tinny quality of the machine could not disguise the hysteria in Frankie’s voice. ‘Please call me. William is dead!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  William Whittington III was cremated on a beautiful autumn day. The service was a private affair. Afterwards Gabriel drove Frankie back to the house in Holland Park.

  Frankie looked ill. She was impeccably groomed but her skin was sallow and her lips were so dry they were flaking. When Gabriel took her hand to help her out of the car, her fingers were ice-cold.

  For a moment she stood looking at the imposing façade of the house. ‘I love this house. It’s home to me. But the idea of living here without William…’ She stopped, drew a shuddering breath.

  ‘Frankie, I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘He was a great man. Oh, I know all the whispers when we got married. Gold-digger. The age difference. How could this possibly be a love match? But I loved him.’ She inclined her head. ‘These last few months, he started shutting me out. He thought he was making it easier for me. And now he’s gone. And there’s still so much I want to say to him. Oh, God.’ She pressed her fists hard against her eyes. ‘How will I bear this?’

  He drew her close. A chilly wind had sprung up and he draped one side of his coat round her so that she was cocooned in warmth. She started to weep: ugly, dry sobs, her body shaking against his. The rawness of her grief was devastating. His own eyes wet, he stroked her hair, murmured words of comfort. ‘Frankie. My brave girl. Don’t cry like that. Don’t cry. You’ll break my heart.’

  When she finally grew quiet, she pulled away from him and extracted a wad of tissues from her purse. She dabbed at her face. ‘Sorry.’ Her voice was hoarse.

  She was so very pale. And the expression in her eyes…

  ‘Frankie, why don’t I call a friend to stay with you tonight? Isn’t there someone you’d like to be with you?’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘No. But I think I might go away for a while.’

  His heart gave a wrench. ‘Go away? Where to?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere warm.’

  Every object in her house would remind her of the man she had loved, he realised. No wonder she wanted to run away. But the idea that she might leave was unthinkable. He wanted to keep her close. Safe.

  ‘I don’t want you to go, Frankie. You shouldn’t be alone.’

  ‘I am alone.’ The terrible sadness in her voice filled him with despair.

  ‘You can’t just disappear.’ He placed an urgent hand on her arm. ‘You have to keep in touch.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s time for us to give each other some breathing space?’

  ‘You’re disappointed in me—I know you are. And I understand that.’ His fingers tightened on her elbow. A feeling of panic was rising inside his chest. ‘But Frankie—please, please don’t give up on me!’

  ‘I’m confused, Gabriel. You’re probably confused too. Besides, it’s over, don’t you think? I wanted William to know what had happened to his son. But now he’s dead. And revenge seems pretty pointless right now.’

  ‘I gave your husband my word that I wouldn’t stop searching.’ But as he said the words, he realised how futile they sounded. How was he going to accomplish his goal now the sisters had kicked him out of the house? His wallet, shoes and belt had been couriered to his apartment in a neatly wrapped package. No accompanying note. There was no indication at all that they were interested in resuming relations. He was filled with rage at their indifference—how could they simply cut him out of their lives as if they had cancelled a subscription to a magazine? But, for all his anger, he knew that if they so much as lifted a finger in his direction, he would run to them. What a needy pathetic fool he was.

  ‘William told me about your promise.’ Frankie sounded weary. ‘But the way I understand it, you told him that once he stopped looking for Robbie, you would too. Well, I guess that lets you off the hook.’

  Gabriel winced. But there was no bitterness in Frankie’s eyes, only sorrow.

  He watched hopelessly as she searched for her keys. Nothing he could say was going to change her mind, he realised. He was going to have to stand here and simply watch her walk away from him.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ she said. ‘Really, I will. But I need to be alone for a bit. Sort out my head.’ She touched his cheek briefly. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ll be all right.’ But as she walked down the garden path towards the front door, her gait was hesitant, as though she wasn’t able to see well.

  The wind was becoming gustier. Earlier in the day, the sky had been achingly blue, but as Gabriel got back into his car dark clouds were drifting over, shutting out the sun.

  Summer had gone. In the garden at Monk House the roses were probably turning brown, he thought. Or maybe they were still flowering desperately in a last-gasp effort before withering away. Deep inside him, he sensed that the change of seasons was mirroring a transformation within himself. He was still not exactly sure what he was leaving behind; wholly uncertain as to what he was to become.

  By the time he parked round the corner from Isidore’s house, water was sluicing from the sky. He had no umbrella with him and had to sprint from the car to Isidore’s front door. As he rang the doorbell, he realised he was soaked to the skin.

  Isidore opened the front door. For a moment they simply stared at each other.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘You have it.’ Isidore answered without hesitation. ‘Come on in.’

  • • •

  Isidore handed him a grimy towel. ‘How’s Frankie?’

  ‘Not good.’ Gabriel rubbed the towel over his head.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s to be expected.’ Isidore pressed a mug of steaming something into his hand. ‘Here. It will warm you up.’

  ‘What is it?’ Gabriel took a sip. The liquid was so hot it scalded his palate.

  ‘Cup-a-Soup. Good stuff.’

  The brew was gritty and bland but it was strangely comforting to sit there in Isidore’s ugly chair, the heat of the soup burning his throat, watching Isidore as he pottered around the room. The TV was on, the sound turned low. Another rerun of CSI. Isidore was still infatuated with the seductive if steely Catherine Willows.

  Gabriel emptied the cup and placed it carefully on top of a spread-eagled comic book.

  ‘What’s wrong, Gabriel?’

  He looked up. Isidore was watching him steadily.

  ‘I think…’ He stopped, looked back at the comic book. The cover featured a big-bosomed, kick-ass superwoman in a tight-fitting dominatrix suit squaring off against a lizard-like villain with three eyes. The lady looked as though she’d be able to kick the crap out of any scaly-skinned guy.

  ‘Gabe. What is it?’ Isidore was starting to look alarmed.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I think Whittington was murdered.’ Now that the words had actually left his mouth, Gabriel felt relief.

  ‘What are you talking about? The man was terminally ill. It’s sad that he’s gone but it was totally on the cards.’

  ‘Isidore, Whittington suffered from cancer. But he died of a brain aneurism.’

  ‘If you’re sick, your body’s immunity is down. You�
�re much more open to other things that can go wrong as well.’

  ‘That’s not what happened. I know it.’

  Isidore stared at him for a few moments. ‘You say he was murdered. Well, explain to me how the killer deliberately triggered an aneurism in the guy’s brain. It’s simply not possible.’

  ‘I think she did it through remote viewing.’

  ‘She? The woman who drowned Robbie?’

  Gabriel nodded. In Isidore’s eyes he saw horror. His own mind was feeling eerily at peace. As if by finally putting his suspicions into words, he had lanced the boil. But as he looked down at his hands, he saw they were shaking.

  ‘Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Does she just have it in for the Whittington males?’

  ‘She scanned me the other night, remember? So she knew I’d keep searching for Robbie as long as his father wanted me to. With him out of the way, there is no reason for me to continue the investigation.’

  Silence. Isidore looked shell-shocked. In the background Gil Grissom was saying to a sad-eyed Sara Sidle, one eyebrow arched quizzically: ‘The best intentions are fraught with disappointment.’

  Isidore moved agitatedly in his seat. ‘I get the impression that’s not all that’s bothering you.’

  Why couldn’t he stop his hands trembling? Gabriel balled his fingers into fists. But the shaking was travelling from his hands and taking hold of his entire body. He was suddenly shivering violently.

  ‘I feel responsible.’

  ‘Responsible? For Whittington’s death? Oh, come on, Gabe, take off the hairshirt. You were tricked into a scan. Those women drugged you.’

  He didn’t answer. He had given Isidore a fair account of the events of that night but he had omitted the more salacious details. He still wasn’t sure if there had been an actual exchange of bodily fluids between him and one or both of the women. But what he did know was that the scan itself had been a deeply erotic experience—both pleasurable and terrifying in equal measure. Bliss and peril. The sense of danger a goad to his lust. He was drugged, but if he hadn’t been, would he have put up a fight? Remembering that slow, slow probe, he knew he would not have. One of the sisters had sparked a firestorm in his brain and every nerve-ending in his body had responded. He had wanted to give himself up to her control completely, allowing her to do with him what she would.

  ‘Hell.’ Isidore’s voice rose. ‘I just realised. If this witch is able to pop veins in people’s heads whenever she feels like it, then you’re at risk as well.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. But I’m not Whittington. I’m an RV myself. I know how to block.’

  ‘That didn’t help you the other night. You were pretty much at her mercy.’

  ‘As you yourself pointed out: I was drugged. That won’t happen again.’

  ‘Gabriel, don’t do it. Frankie isn’t holding you to your promise. Why this quest for justice?’

  Silence.

  Isidore spoke slowly, disbelievingly. ‘This isn’t about justice, is it? You want to know who it is. All you’re interested in is finding out if the woman you love is a murderer.’

  Gabriel didn’t answer.

  ‘I can’t allow you to continue with this.’

  ‘You can’t stop me.’

  For a few moments they stared at each other. ‘Oh, what the hell.’ Isidore shrugged in resignation. ‘What’s next, then?’

  ‘Well, the diary is closed to us now. There’s no way we’ll be able to hack in again from the outside. She’ll be too much on her guard. But we still have to find out what the hell is in that other bloody file.’

  ‘The Promethean Key.’

  ‘Exactly. And yes, go on, say it. I should have accessed the damn thing ages ago. And you’re right: I had the opportunity to do so and I let it slide.’

  ‘So what are we talking about? Breaking and entering again?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. At least it will be quick this time. I have the password so it will literally be a hit and run.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight. After they’ve gone to bed.’

  ‘Well, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Someone has to be there to watch your back.’

  Gabriel looked at his friend—the concerned eyes, the blond hair falling untidily over his forehead, the bony shoulders drooping in a hacker’s slump. He felt suddenly emotional. ‘You’re a good friend, Isidore.’

  ‘I know. You don’t deserve me.’ Isidore grinned.

  ‘OK, you can come along.’ He held up his hand as Isidore’s eyes lit up. ‘But you stay in the van while I slip in and do my thing. Quick and clean.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  By nightfall the weather had deteriorated even more. A gale-force wind was making the trees sway and the rain came down in a steady curtain. Even inside the van, Gabriel could hear the sound of the raindrops striking the bonnet like a drumbeat.

  They had been sitting inside the darkened vehicle for two hours, staring at the subdued light peeping through the half-drawn curtains on the top floor of Monk House. The rest of the house was dark, but that one light was burning steadily, a diffuse orange glow through the driving rain. Gabriel had contemplated entering the house a few times anyway. She was on the second floor and he would be confining his activities to the ground floor. If he was very quiet…

  But Isidore wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We’re playing it safe,’ he insisted firmly. ‘This woman should not be messed with. I don’t want you ending up like Frankie’s husband. I don’t want her to even begin to suspect you’re inside the house.’

  And so they waited, spending the time eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts—Isidore’s contribution to their stakeout—and drinking black coffee from the Thermos flask Gabriel had filled before leaving his apartment. But what with the caffeine and the sugar rush, it was getting very difficult for him to contain his impatience.

  There were two bedrooms on the top floor and the light came from the corner room but, unfortunately, during the time he had spent with the sisters, he had never got to find out which bedroom belonged to which sister. The top floor had always been off-limits, so he did not know who the night owl was, Minnaloushe or Morrighan.

  He glanced at his watch. It was half past midnight. Witching hour.

  ‘What was it like?’ Isidore’s voice was casual.

  ‘What was what like?’

  ‘That whole thing that happened to you at the birthday party. Flying through the air and hearing angels sing and so on.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know. I sense something different about you. Hard to explain. I was wondering if there’s a connection.’

  Gabriel looked ahead into the darkness. ‘It was the most incredible experience I have ever lived through in my entire life. And… and it’s like I’ve had a taste of something which I now crave. I would do anything to feel that way again.’

  Except he did not know how to satisfy his craving. How to regain that feeling of omnipotence? He had felt strong enough to explode right out of his body and take flight. The pull of earth and mortality had ceased to exist for him that night. Was this what Robert Whittington had been searching for? If so, he understood the boy’s hunger. The same hunger had now become an integral part of his own make-up; it had become hardwired into his brain.

  ‘I’m worried about you, Gabe.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘Cravings are dangerous.’

  ‘It was only one taste. No more.’

  ‘Some people smoke crack once and they’re hooked.’

  Gabriel made a dismissive gesture. But, in truth, didn’t he feel sick at the idea that he would never have the experience again? He wasn’t going to tell Isidore exactly how much he was yearning for another hit. He did not even want to admit it to himself. But he had started dreaming about it obsessively.

  The rain continued to batter the van, sluicing down the windscreen. Every now and then they heard a fa
int high moan as the wind increased in strength.

  ‘Look.’ Isidore’s voice was tense with excitement. ‘It’s out.’

  Gabriel turned his head to look at the house. The lighted window pane was dark.

  He placed his hand on the inside door handle, but Isidore grabbed his wrist. ‘Give it another twenty minutes. Let her fall asleep first.’

  They waited. The rain continued to pour down.

  ‘OK. I’m off.’ Gabriel pulled the hood of his waterproof jacket over his head, drawing the strings tight underneath his chin.

  ‘Is your mobile on vibrate?’

  ‘Sure.’ Gabriel patted his jeans pocket. His mobile would allow Isidore to contact him in case of emergency. Such as the top-floor light going on again. Or a bobby on his beat. It wouldn’t do to creep through the back door into the alley only to find a policeman interrupting his stealthy getaway.

  ‘And you’re sure of the spelling of the password?’

  Gabriel gave his friend a withering glance.

  ‘OK. OK. Just checking.’

  Gabriel pushed the door open and grimaced as the force of the wind shoved against him and the rain hit his face. Not a good night to be outside. He jumped out of the van and slammed the door shut.

  The street was completely deserted. He walked quickly into the alley at the rear of Monk House just as he had done that summer’s evening when he had made his first clandestine visit to the house. A lifetime ago.

  The garden door was unlocked, as he expected it to be. The sisters made use of the alley to take out the rubbish and he knew they hardly ever bothered to secure the door afterwards. The French doors, on the other hand, were sure to be locked, and since the last time he broke in they had replaced the mortice lock with something more sophisticated. And to think that over the past two months he could have had a duplicate key made at any time.

  He had been delinquent in his duty, he thought bitterly. He had been sure he was engineering them when he was the one who had been seduced, manipulated and flattered into submission. No steel in his spine, which was why he was now standing in sodden shoes in a rain-drenched garden, shivering with wet and cold and wishing he did not have to be here.